


The Passion Project

by strikerflynnmr



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (yes you read "love potion" correctly), Agender Pidge | Katie Holt, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coming Out, Competition, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Foster Care, Lance (Voltron) Has Anxiety, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Lance (Voltron), Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prom, Rivalry, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Suburbia, Watermelons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikerflynnmr/pseuds/strikerflynnmr
Summary: Lance is convinced his destiny lies in marrying the girl next door. Then Keith, her new foster brother, creates a wedge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy y'all! Disclaimer: I reeaallllyy want to write and finish this fic in a timely manner. I've left chapter fics abandoned before and really don't want that to be this one's story. Usually, my policy is to write, complete, and edit the entire thing before uploading, but I've drifted towards longer (really long) works recently, and I realized that anything I've posted is so old that it doesn't show how much I've grown to be ABLE to write this new stuff as comprehensively as I can. So I'm trying to roll with it.
> 
> That said, this is still a little new to me, and my ego and self-motivation are fragile. I want this story to be high-quality and technically proficient, which means I want to do a lot of planning out before I post anything that I feel is ready to be posted, so there will probably be long stretches between chapters, but hopefully the chapters will be solid enough that they make up for that. I'm excited about my suburban dream boys so let's get to it.

Allura flounces down her front steps in a pink skirt and Lance thinks his heart is going to stop. He’s been infatuated with her since they were kids, but it’s only in the last year or so that he’s gotten to look out his car window every day and see _this_. Before that, it was him waiting on her front lawn to walk to the bus stop together, and before that it was getting dropped off and peeking at her from the coat cubby of Mrs. Haldstein's fourth-grade classroom.

They'd grown up across from each other on Slope Lane on Branching Crescent since Lance was first placed with his foster dad, Takashi Shirogane.

Shiro was, after the unluckiest thing that had ever happened to Lance, the luckiest way out of a bad situation. It was all to him that instead of a crowded city house, Lance set his bag down in summery suburbia, where the trimmed grass grew bright flowers and big houses, and everything existed on this one winding, eternal, blacktop road. Everything, and her—which were kind of the same thing.

It wasn't a bad childhood to fall into. With luck like that, how could he not love... everything? (...Even if he himself had never bloomed quite neatly enough here.)

"Dude," Hunk says from the passenger seat, and he snaps twice in Lance's ear, "you're staring."

Lance sighs. "Yeeeaaah."

Allura reaches the car just as the house door slams open a second time. Pidge comes running down the steps with half a loaf of toast stuffed in their mouth so their head looks like an accordion, backpack flapping on their back, late to the party as usual. Lance pokes his head coolly out the window and says, “Get in, Gremlin.”

With a rude gesture in Lance's direction, Pidge clambers through, and Allura after them. This is their official seating arrangement. Hunk gets the passenger seat (because of his motion sickness and long legs), Lance always drives (because Pidge isn't old enough and Allura’s dad doesn't like her driving on the freeway to get to school), and Allura sits behind him and Pidge sits behind Hunk. The car's name is Yvette. She is secondly a tomato-soup red 2012 Mazda and firstly the solidifying rock of their teenage years. 

"Everyone buckled?"

After a chorus of affirmatives, Lance takes to the road.

Immediately, Allura leans forward between the two front seats. "Pidge and I have something to tell you guys."

"Mmfigfmm," Pidge says excitedly.

"We didn't say anything before because we didn't know if it was definite until literally this morning," Allura says quickly, breathlessly, "but my father is hosting a new foster child starting today!"

Lance's eyebrows shoot up, but otherwise he gives no external reaction. Yet. Hunk bites.

"Really? No way, who is it?"

"His name is Keith," Allura says. "He's bounced around the system quite a bit, so my father would like to try and provide him with a home that is perhaps more stable than he's used to."

"Young kid?"

"Our age," says Pidge.

Now, Lance chimes in, and it's only to channel some of his accumulating anxious energy into a dig. " _Your_ age or  _our_ age?"

Pidge kicks the side of Lance's seat.

"These are nice leather seats, Gremlin!"

Allura brushes her hair behind her ear and sits back again. "Are we stopping for coffee?"

"Do you care about homeroom?" Lance asks.

"No," says everyone.

"Then yes," says Lance.

He's already skipped ahead to the next prominent track of thought because he's offended on behalf of his upholstery and it's 7 in the morning and someone mentioned coffee and Allura is wearing a new perfume that smells like coconut. Was something else on the agenda?

But any hope of remembering is squashed as he nearly gets cut off merging onto coffee exit. He can't crash, he's carrying precious cargo. And Pidge.

They go through the drive thru and Pidge orders a breakfast sandwich (Lance: "You are STILL eating!"), and then they get back on the freeway, and they're on their way, and the sun is shining, and it's still warm in that way the end of summer is, and Lance is seventeen, and this is the last year before Allura and Hunk go off to college and everything changes. He's going to make it count. And wouldn't it be nice if he got someone living across the street to fall in love with him?

Again, not the gremlin.

Or the dad.

Just the daughter.

She's talking about how her applications are going, and Hunk chimes in to groan about the agony of writing essays, and Lance is already in paradise but transcends to Heaven when she leans forward again and asks him which movie they're watching for movie night tonight. (Yes, they  _do_ have one-on-one movie nights, and Lance is thrilled about it forever.)

"I thought we said since I have to blow off our shopping date for soccer practice, you get to pick," he reminded her.

"Fuck, you right homie. I forgot you couldn't go. I wanted those shoes at Forever 21, too." She retreats, and Lance seriously contemplates ditching or faking sick or something. "Well, that'll give me time to sneak down to my dad's lab anyway."

"Oh yeah," says Hunk, and damn, the moment's gone. "Why are you breaking his rules and trust to do that again?"

Lance isn't expecting Allura to respond  _quite_ so loudly, so his eardrum is a little bit blasted out when she shouts, "I CAN MAKE A LOVE POTION, HUNK, I KNOW IT!"

And Pidge says with equal ferocity, "WE WILL CRACK THE FORMULA."

Hunk and Lance silently agree to accept that at face value. It isn't the first time Allura and Pidge have mentioned that they'd gotten carried away and teamed up to try to outsmart science, and even Hunk would not humor the deeply-theoretical and deeperly-long-winded debates those two would get into if the topic was allowed to carry.

"Wait, so Keith's arrival isn't going to mess with your movie night?" Hunk asks. And for the second time, introducing this "Keith" as a topic startles Lance. His grip tightens on the wheel, and he frowns, and he says, "He can just try to come between me and Lala!"

And Allura says, "Lala, stop."

And Pidge says, "If he's going to be living in this new,  _stable_ house, he may as well get used to Lance's constant presence now. This is the friend group."

Lance sniffs a little at the idea of offering someone none of them have even met a free ticket into the friend group.

"Allura," Hunk says gently, "I thought your dad didn't really... I mean I thought him taking in Pidge was kind of, like, an exception."

This was Hunk politely reminding everyone in the car that after the Garrison mission that killed their father and brother, Pidge had only weeks with their sick mother before the worst happened, and they were, around the same time as Lance, being introduced to the foster system. Shiro fought to take them in, but because of red tape, things weren't working out the way everyone wanted, and circumstances were only looking worse. Then, unexpectedly, Alfor Altea, CEO of Altea Pharmaceuticals, a powerful man who had the utmost respect for Shiro and trusted most any cause the staid retiree carried, opened his doors, pulled some strings, and his biological daughter Allura got a foster sibling.

"He luss uhh," Pidge says, which Lance barely understands to mean  _He loves me_ before they swallow and continue, "I'm so awesome I changed his mind."

"Really?" asks Hunk.

"Well, he had a phone discussion with Pidge's agent a few weeks ago," Allura says, "and the topic of a boy who'd been very difficult to help came up. My father offered easily, really. He likes to invest in challeges."

"And to help people," Pidge deadpans.

Allura, Lance sees in the rearview mirror, flushes scarlet. "Yes, and that aspect. I'm sorry, I hope I don't sound prejudiced one way about what foster kids are like. It's just that this particular boy has never stayed in one place for long at all. My father is taking this into account and told us how we might expect the boy to behave."

Lance always thought that Risk Vs. Reward was one of the first lessons businesspeople learned on how to be successful.

 

* * *

 

Allura and Hunk are both in the same period math class, and Pidge's grade level is in a different wing, so they all separate when they get to school, and Lance is stuck feeling like an idiot as he walks to  _his_ math class just because he's in junior regular instead of senior AP. He comes in late halfway through a pop quiz, and Mr. Capot is not pleased.

A balding, bearded man with small eyes and a smaller sense of humor, Mr. Capot is not one partial to second chances, which is basically all Lance has ever been. "Do you have a pass?" he asks, knowing the answer is:  _No, I have an iced coffee_.

Lance drops his bag on his chair and gingerly places his drink on the corner of his desk, but they're making direct eye contact while it happens, and no amount of pleasantness is going to keep Lance's obvious priority from his teacher. "Good morning, Mr. Capot."

He smiles in what he hopes is a charming way. He's pretty sure this exact smile and his ability to make a joke out of any failure is what got him through chemistry last year.

"Do you have your notes packet, at least?" Mr. Capot asks. Lance nods and digs them out of his bag as proof. "Go to the library and make a copy."

Questioning this order is in nobody's best interest. Lance takes a swig of his coffee, puts it back, heads for the door, changes his mind, goes back for the coffee, and, finally, leaves. 

The library is just down the hall. Lance jabs at the copier buttons with one hand and sips his straw with the other, because if the coffee is the reason he's late then surely he must at least enjoy it. Besides, he paid for it with Shiro's hard-earned money. Maybe Lance should get a job. Maybe he should learn how to work this stupid, beep-boop-schreeching copier.

Maybe the copier ratted him out, maybe he's just struggling that obviously, but the student at the library help desk comes over to check on him. She, Lance vaguely remembers, is the girl Hunk asked to homecoming last year and then got too scared to ever talk to again. Shay.

"Hey, Lance. Let me help you with that," she says, checking that his packet isn't stapled and is facing the feeder the right way. "Oh, and congratulations!"

And if that isn't a bizarre way to greet an acquaintance in the morning, Lance doesn't know what is. He sucks, sucks, sucks his drink, cluelessly. "Hmm?"

Shay side-eyes him as she plugs some information onto the screen. "On getting elected?"

And Lance's heart re-starting causes him to nearly spit coffee on her, the machine, and this pastel-prep outfit he loves so dearly. "Wait." He coughs. "Say everything you just said, but again, with more detail on what you are exactly talking about. Please say—"

"Didn't you hear the morning announcements?" Shay asks, grinning. The copier vomits out a pile of papers. Shay takes a stapler out from under her elbow and clicks it over them, and Lance's original, and hands them both back to him. His hands are numb. It isn't the ice in his iced coffee doing that. He can't believe this.

"Election results already came in? I missed them? I thought they would be at the end of the day!"

"No, they were this morning."

"And I... won? I'm president?" He doesn't want to say it out loud in case it isn't true, but Shay beams at him and nods. "Holy shit! That's awesome! What was it like when my name was announced? Was there cheering? Could you hear the whole school applauding down the hallway? Oh man, this is awesome!"

"Congratulations!" Shay says again. She pats him on the shoulder and leaves him to help another student check out a book. Lance is shell-shocked. He  _actually won_. Most of his campaign—if you called doing rounds at lunch tables and yelling "I'm running!" before sprinting from one end of the hallway to the other and then spinning back to finish, "For president!" campaigning—was braggadocios and hopeful more than anything else. But people actually... they voted for him. He  _won_.

All Lance can do is thoughtfully sip and head back to class, thoroughly satisfied with himself and caring much less about missing Capot's quiz.

He can't wait to tell the others.

 

* * *

 

 

Lunch is bumping. Lance slams his tray down, giddy to burst after having paid attention to exactly none of his classes that morning, and proudly says, "I bet you're all wondering why I've gathered you here today. Well, ponder no longer. It's because I've chosen to appoint you as my secret service."

It seems that by now they've all heard the news and cheerfully congratulate him for a round, even Pidge.

"I'm so proud that I  _might_ be tempted to do 'we both agree on a movie' tonight instead of me picking," Allura says, peeling an apple with a plastic knife.

"Pride and Prejudice!" Lance says immediately. "The Kiera Knightly version because I'm not a little bitch."

And, right on cue, Hunk slices through Lance-talk by posing a thoughtful question to Allura: "Do you think Keith is at your house yet?"

She cocks her head, glances at the clock on the wall. "It's like noon, so probably. Wonder what he's doing."

"Unpacking?" says Hunk, shrugging and making a face.

"Coloring on the wall," says Pidge.

"Constructing a sigil on the floor of his bedroom for a ritualistic sacrifice—WAIT." Lance slams both hands down on the table, eyes shut tight, sucking in a deep breath. "Which bedroom is he getting?"

"Second floor, blue one," says Allura.

And Lance collapses forward, sobbing without tears in a proper tantrum. "Nooooooo," he moans. "That one has the best bathroom! I need it for my face masks! Allura, how could you..."

There's a second where no one says anything. Lance presumes they're all staring at him, and maybe some of the kids at other tables, too.

"Lance, this is a kid who literally needs a home," Hunk says flatly.

"Yeah, get over it," says Pidge.

Lance picks his head up, glowers mutinously at each of them in turn. "Class president can't have zits and blackheads, you traitors. You're all fired."

"Wow," says Hunk. "That lasted, what, six minutes? What sort of pay rate does that translate to in hours?"

"Do we get severance packages?" asks Allura.

"I also exile you back to the junior high hallway," Lance declares. "You're all freshmen again now. Gremlin, you're a freshman for the first time."

Pidge loudly scrapes the inside of their Jell-O cup with their fork. "You will regret dishonoring me."

"You can do nothing."

"If you can't join them, beat them."

"And now," Allura cuts in, "you have no secret service to protect you."

Suddenly, the kids sitting two tables down burst into laughter. Every head at Lance's table turns to see Heidi Lurchin flip her hair over her shoulder, scratching her knee. Is it just Lance, or does she laugh a little louder than everybody else? Oblivious, that table continues their conversation. Lance sighs.

"Allura," he says, still watching their table even though everyone else has turned back by now. "If we weren't getting married, I would go over to her with a bushel of roses and tell her that her laugh sounds like music."

"You don't have any roses," Hunk points out. "You have a pudding cup."

Allura pushes a hand through her long mane of hair, with an expression on her face that reads  _When Will This Thing I Must Live With But Have No Patience For End_. She says, "I  _encourage_ you to go talk to her."

And Pidge says, "I dare you."

That's the magic word. Like an automaton, Lance straightens. Stands. Hunk reaches out to stop him, the prophetic fall of an empire reflected in the glimmering fear of his eyes as he says, "Bro. You cannot."

"Bro," Lance says in return. "I must." He clenches his fist against his breastbone. "I have been dared."

Pidge grins wickedly. "It is already too late."

Allura makes a prayer first of her hands and beseeches the sky. " _Please_ let it go well."

With a burst of confidence no doubt stemming from being told by the whole junior class that he's a pretty cool dude, or at least cool enough to plan prom, Lance saunters over to the table. And then he gets there. He's sure there. Standing at the table. Hmm.

For a moment, his mind is absolutely blank with panic, and nobody in the group has acknowledged him. And then— _and then_ —Bryce Beamers, the worst possible candidate (pun intended), squints up at Lance, whose instincts kickstart so he can get the first word in.

"Hello, all my lovely constituents!" he says, a little too loudly. "Just wanted to parade around the good news and ask if I could get anyone anything. You know, make any binding promises, fulfill any vows, that sort of thing."

Why. Why did he say that. What is wrong with him.

Bryce's glower has the potential to melt glass. "What, you're really gloating?" he growls.

And Lance, like frightened prey in the wild, can only say, "Um, what."

"You just came over here to rub it in my face that  _you_ won."

"That's..." Heidi says. Eyebrows pinched together, raised skeptically. Lips pursed. One word with that look on her face, and it's a knife through Lance's heart. This is  _not_ as smooth as he was hoping. He's go to retreat.

"Uhhh, no, I just..." Lance scratches the side of his head, glances at the clock, shrugs and passes it off with a laugh. "Well, I mean, what, we can't be happy for the winner?"

Jasmine Cole, the girl sitting next to Heidi, someone Lance has always admired for her bright-color-on-dark-skin outfits, lets her jaw drop open in indignation. "Oh,  _really_?" she asks.

Bryce scoffs right alongside her. "Okay, rich boy."

"Are you...  _what_?" says Lance.

"You're not even going to take it seriously," says Bryce. "Nothing's going to be handed to you, you know."

"Are you trying to call me privileged?"

"Certainly ain't seen your khaki's slumming it in the city," Jasmine says skeptically. She turns her head away, but not before Lance catches the hint of an eye roll. All he can do is gawk at them all.

"My—entire family! Died and left me in foster care...?"

"Oh," Bryce says straight to Jasmine, "so now he's playing the victim."

But before Jasmine can reply, Heidi jumps in, her eyes as wide as Lance's, to say, "What is going  _on_ with this conversation!"

"Yeah!" Lance cries, pointing wildly at her even though she's a foot away from him. "Yeah, that! That's my question!"

"Um, maybe you should just go," Heidi murmurs, biting her lip, and Lance thinks  _definitely_ none of this is his proudest moment. She's certainly not at all impressed. Plus, Bryce looks about ready to leap out of his chair and take a swing at Lance—but could maybe be pacified by gloating and getting to watch Lance run away.

And Lance would  _love_ to run away! If it didn't mean putting on a show for Heidi. And his friends, who, at the moment, he can't bear to look back at because he knows they'll be watching with either glee or pity and he doesn't want either. Any. He's stuck.

"Uh..."

"Bye!" Jasmine says with a wave and a head swerve. Lance can't help an indignant scoff, his hand on his chest.

"Seriously," says Bryce. "No one likes a douchebag."

And Lance's temper snaps. "Yeah. They don't."

He strides back to his table, a little annoyed and infinitely embarrassed, and when the others ask him what just happened, all he can do is stare at his tray and say, with total honestly, "I have  _no_ idea."

"Bryce is still staring at you," says Pidge, staring without shame. "Should I put out a hit?"

Lance twists in his seat just long enough to flip Bryce the bird, sending hate-waves with it.

"Oh, he did  _not_ like that," says Hunk.

"Do I give a shit?" Lance asks. He starts eating fries huffily because he's wasted enough of the lunch period not eating, and soon he'll have to go back to class, and then after that he'll have to live the rest of his life, and God, that sounds awful right now.

Allura startles him by lightly punching his shoulder across the table. She's got an encouraging smile on. "Well, a president's bound to attract envy."

It helps.

Still, he has to sigh. " _So_ not what I was trying to attract. I went over there to talk to her, not him, and he just stole the whole conversation." He cups his hands over his mouth and shouts at Bryce, "This is why no one voted for you!"

At once, Hunk's strong grip steers Lance back into his seat, but Lance is practiced enough by now to pointedly avoid his reprimanding glare. "Dude," Hunk warns, "you're going to start something if you aren't careful."

"I'm not scared of him."

"Really," Hunk says, flat. "Thought you cared about your reputation more than anything."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I have an idea!" Pidge says loudly. "How about we don't take shots at our friends?"

That's when Lance remembers it was Pidge's fault he went over there in the first place, but he's too mad at everything to be specifically mad at them, so he channels his energy more productively—justification. "Bryce is an asshole. I'm going to stand up for myself. All I did was walk over there and he started spewing bullshit."

"But you have to admit you can be insensitive," says Hunk.

"Fine, sure, but this wasn't one of those times."

"Okay," says Pidge.

"Well, not on purpose."

Allura touches his arm. "That's alright, Lala."

"They all attacked me out of nowhere!" Lance insists. "At least Heidi was pretty nice about it... Even if she seemed kinda... I don't know..."

And, finally, Hunk's disappointment melts into reassurance. He pats Lance on the shoulder. "There'll be other chances to talk to her, buddy."

"Yeah, I know..." Lance sighs out the last of his mopiness, then returns with as bulletproof an ego as ever. "Good thing Lala and I are destined for each other anyway."

Allura groans and lets her head fully hit the table. "I wish that had killed me," she mumbles.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance has just enough time after school to drop everyone off back home before soccer practice. He doesn't mind the extra trip because he likes driving, likes not waiting in the locker room for practice to start, and likes feeling important to his friends. Worst comes to worst, he can always chuck his keys to Hunk and catch the late bus home.

After after school, Lance gets home a little late and showers, then Shiro and Hunk ask him to cut watermelon into cubes (which he does, clumsily) because they're cooking a buffet for the whole town—oh, wait, no, they're inviting  _a few_ extra people to dinner. And among those people, the new and mysterious Keith. Hunk has not so much as seen the guy, and Pidge and Allura are being surprisingly quiet about it all. The most Lance got out of Pidge was one text: " _hes a quiet dude until u start talking about aliens_ "

So when the time rolls around for the guest(s but really guest) of honor to arrive, Lance is suspicious and antsy. Bryce was made captain of the soccer team which means Lance is officially doomed in that respect, and  _now_ , in the place he's supposed to be allowed to indulge in all the comforts of home, he has to but on a nice shirt and be polite around a stranger—something any teenager is always excited to do.

The table is just finishing being set when the forceful knock of Allura's father, Alfor, carries from the inner-patio.

"Get that, Lance?" asks Shiro, snapping his left hand back from the corner of a hot pan as the potholder slips.

Lance is so curious about the new kid that he bypasses all of his usual complaints and scurries to the door, swings it open at once.

His eyes spend less than a second scanning the faces he already knows until they pinpoint the one he doesn't, and  _(what?_   _No. Hey, fuck—that's—_ ) _that's_ Keith?

Dude shows up in a t-shirt, tight jeans, and a biker jacket, as if he has no idea just the sauce in the lasagna costs more than his entire outfit.


	2. Chapter 2

He's a  _bad boy_. Look at him. Shaggy, mullet-y hair, pouty lips, a lean to his stance like he's ready to pounce at one wrong word. Hands in pockets. Staring with this angry apprehension like some creature on a nature documentary waiting for Lance to snap the wrong way.

 _This_ guy is going to be living with Allura? Oh  _hell_ no. No way. From the set of his brow to the cut of his jaw, he's a threat.

"Good evening, Lance," Alfor says, smiling pleasantly from the back of the party. He's dressed in a blue-gray suit and a blue tie, his hair gelled, his beard neat. Lance has never seen him out of work clothes.

And Allura, of course, is a show-stopper. She's changed into a flowery sundress and the moonlight is shining off her sleek hair. She's so beautiful Lance's heart clenches. She's... She's standing next to  _him_ , Lance happens to finally notice, and a horrible voice whispers that the two of them could look good together for a very long time. It's like all the air in Lance's lungs is packed suddenly down to a straw-hole. _This_ is what panic feels like.

Alfor puts a hand on the bad boy's shoulder, who can't hide a grimace. "This is Keith," he continues. "He'll be staying with us awhile. Keith, this young man is Lance."

"Hey," says Keith, alongside an awkward, forced wave.

Lance's arms cross. "Why are you wearing a jacket?"

Sure, there were no dress instructions printed on invitations, but everyone else is suffering in their button-ups. This guy could have bothered to notice that before leaving the house.

Keith pinches his zipper critically. "It's my nice one."

"It's seventy degrees."

"May we come in?" Allura asks. (He can hear in her look:  _Honestly, Lance, don't be childish_.)

Mechanically, Lance steps aside and the guests file in. Pidge pauses on the doorstep to shoot him a knowing look over their phone screen, and Lance shoos them into the house. Creepy gremlin, always implying things.

Inside the dining room, Shiro and Hunk have dinner all laid out. The good tablecloth, polished China and fancy glasses, bread rolls, fresh garden salad, cubed watermelon, steamed peas, corn, mashed potatoes, and the mother of all lasagnas. It would smell heavenly if Lance hadn't just fallen into the trenches of warfare.

"Alfor!" Shiro greets, shaking the man's hand at the door. "Please, have this one."

He pulls out the seat at the head of the table, but Alfor sticks up both hands and takes a cordial step back. "No, no. The place is yours, son."

He settles nicely in the chair to the right. Allura takes the spot next to her father, and Lance races to claim her other side. Pidge asserts themselves at the other head, then Keith, then an empty seat, then Hunk wraps around to Shiro's left.

(Keith and Lance across from each other. Lance glaring.)

They all start eating. Lance tastes nothing. There's a brief moment where it's just knives and plates clinking, scraping, and Lance seizes the opportunity to talk to Allura—

"So!" Alfor proclaims. "Lance, Hunk, how is school going?"

It's like he's expecting reports at a business meeting, confident and cordial, and Hunk jumps on it. "Yeah, great!" he says. "My science teacher is trying to hook me up with an internship."

 _No, no, no!_ Lance is losing his opportunity!

"Excellent!" Alfor beams. "Where?"

"Not sure yet," Hunk answers, one eye on the peas he's scooping.

"I understand if you'd like to make your own career path, but you're of course welcome at the labs. I would see to it personally."

CLANG!

Hunk drops the serving spoon on the table and scurries to replace it in the bowl, then to replace the bowl on the table. "Wow," he breathes, eyes wide. "Wow, yeah, that'd be really cool! Sorry. Um, I haven't given it much thought yet, but I'll keep it in mind. Yeah."

Alfor smiles knowingly. His (very successful) company is a humane pharmaceuticals lab in the nearby city, one that is constantly making headlines in the economics section of the newspaper. The anti-anxiety meds he manufactures, Lance knows personally, have been just one recent revolution to the industry. Hunk won't throw away that opportunity lightly.

Cutting into his lasagna with such easy authority (so casually undermining Lance's attempts to chat up his daughter), Alfor angles himself over the table and somehow manages to effectively block Allura from behind her with just his authoritative personality. "And what about you, young man?"

Lance gives a tight smile, eyes darting to Allura and back. "Good."

There's a pregnant pause. Everyone expects him to go on, but he'll wait it out. If he's going to get to Allura alone, the rest of the table needs to be preoccupied first.

Shiro coughs into his fist and blurts, "Lance was elected class president today."

Lance gawks, almost resenting him for doing the bragging-on-behalf thing, but then Alfor actually _claps_ in delight. Three booming smacks. And for a moment, any cramp in the situation is unfelt. A man Lance has sought approval from for years looks genuinely proud of him, and their whole relationship briefly de-mystifies. Lance is not the scamp neighbor boy chasing after Alfor's daughter and inhaling the hard-earned food in his fridge for a growth spurt. He's a young man Alfor has watched grow up from a reasonably close distance and is now recognizing as his own person. Lance's hand goes the slightest bit numb around his fork.

Alfor bows his head. "That is an enviable accomplishment. You must've worked hard."

"I..." Distracted, Lance's bashful gaze settles somewhere near his plate. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Two jabs of an elbow _actually_ jostle him, Lance is _actually_ unsteady from this. Allura smiles at him, meaning for it to be meaningful, and says, "Good one, Lala!"

Pride blossoms in his chest as he goes quiet again, this time retreating inward. If he squints into his mashed potatoes, he can almost catch a glimpse of the respectable man he's going to become.

"No black olives?" Pidge asks loudly, scrutinizing the table layout, and Shiro clicks his tongue.

"I forgot to run out to the store," he says apologetically. "I'm sure we can survive one night without them. So, Keith—"

But three heavy knocks on glass announce a late arrival at the door. Also, it conveniently distracts anybody from noticing the gaping black hole sliding into Lance's seat. He knows how selfish it is to want them to keep talking about him, to go into detail about his future plans like Hunk's internship or the awards Allura wins at school—but there it all goes. All his pride. Like a fishing line has yanked a bright sparkler from his chest, and he can feel the warmth whizzing away.

In the process of picking up his face, Lance accidentally makes eye contact with Keith. The creep was watching him. Lance grips his fork tighter and pointedly ignores him.

The middle-aged man who lets himself in is beanpole-tall with a ginger mustache. Allura's godfather and Alfor's close friend, Coran, pushing in with his usual ruckus. Despite his tendency to shout greetings, he's dressed smartly and escorting a wine bottle.

"Hello! Hello, everyone! Hello!" he says. "Sorry I'm late! Couldn't get out of the office. Monstrous workload. No pun intended."

Pidge squints in thought. "What... pun  _was_ there?"

"Monstrous!" He glances about at each of them expectantly. "You know... Monstrous. With the holiday coming up."

"Coran," Allura says delicately, "do you mean Halloween?"

"That's the one!"

"It's still  _September_."

Coran shakes his head thoughtfully, almost wistfully, setting the wine on the short cabinet by the wall where Shiro stores party decorations. "Ahh," he says. "As you get older, you will realize more and more that time means nothing."

There's that desecrated, not uncommon silence that suggests Coran has just had his way with a room's conversation.

Still far too in control of what happens next, the old gentleman comes up and lands a heavy hand on Lance's shoulder. "What say we budge away, young man, and let a man catch up with his goddaughter?"

Oh,  _what?_  What was this total sabotage? Did Coran have no qualms about breaking up very important friendships?

"I, uh," Lance stutters. "My plate's already—"

"Lance," Shiro cuts in. "It's polite. Sounds like Coran had a long day."

"Polite to let him walk in and shake up a room full of comfortably seated people?" Lance asks shrilly, but it's as if no one hears him. Behind Lance's chair, Coran has started to pull off his shoes.

He pats Lance twice on the head. "There's a good lad."

Coran is not trying to be insensitive. He's just  _the_ most oblivious adult Lance has ever met—and Lance _is_ used to it. It's just never stabbed him in the back like this before.

With deep reluctance, Lance picks up his plate and pushes back his chair with his knees. Despite such a cold betrayal, he's careful not to hit the squatting Coran. That's when he zeroes in on the only available chair left.

The one beside Keith.

Allura reaches an arm over the table. "Keith, could you pass me the empty plate?"

Lance watches in disgust, carrying his potatoes through the walk of shame, as Keith stretches his (long, muscular, stupid) arm over the table and hands Allura the plate. She sets it at Lance's vacated chair and doles on a healthy portion of lasgna. Meanwhile, Lance plops dejectedly next to the watermelon. And, okay, maybe across from Allura isn't so bad. Lance can swing this. He just has to keep his head from turning too far to the right, and he can pretend tonight is perfect.

Coran resurfaces and settles into the circle. For the first time, he notices the newcomer among them. 

"You must be Keith. Pleasure to meet you!"

He half-stands and extends a hand over the corn. Keith mirrors him and gives it an uncomfortable shake. They both sit back down. Lance is too slow to kick the chair out from under Keith.

"Yeah," says Keith. "And you're... Allura's godfather?"

Coran snaps a finger gun. "You've got it! Been helping to raise her since she was a child. And Pidge, these past few years. Delighted to have you in the house, and if there's ever anything you need, don't hesitate to call on. I assume you've strutted a tour?"

"Yeah."

"Attic door's all you'll ever need, then!" says Coran, now shuffling his lasagna into some kind of a mushy salad. "Chipper, absolutely chipper."

Lance isn't always sure that the words coming out of Coran's mouth are the same to him as they are to everyone else. They always sound just slightly misplaced.

Rather like Lance himself always feels slightly misplaced. He must have got too close to the attic door as a child. Caught something.

"Um, yeah. Thanks," says Keith, clearly done talking now, but Coran, in his indomitable cheerful nature, carries on, heaping more corn than is proper onto his plate.

"And my brother tells me you've seen a few homes in your time?"

Wow, even Lance feels a twinge of sympathy at the insensitivity of that one. He's only ever been with Shiro, but he feels for the kids who have bounced around and around without making any proper connections with the people around them.

Not that he was changing his mind about Keith! Keith had no business near Allura. If Keith and Lance could just swap places, Lance would be entirely on Keith's side.

Again, all Keith says is, "Yeah."

And then Shiro jumps in on the topic, trying to be at least conversational. "Where are some of the areas you've lived?"

"Um. A lot of time in the desert, like near Texas," Keith recounts, nodding, and Lance fights not to roll his eyes because could he  _be_ any more boring? "One summer I was up in New York City, but I didn't like it much. Florida was okay."

Lance's hands slam onto the table a little harder than necessary. "Florida is  _amazing_ ," he says. "Remember spring break last year, Lala? We did Disney World!"

There is not one person at the table who has not stopped eating to wince.

Allura sniffs and nods. "It was fun."

As though living in a dream where he is only vaguely in control of what his body does next, Lance whips his head back to Keith in righteous victory and says, "See? You don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay," is all Keith says.

Everyone returns to their plate and lets the moment run awkwardly silent. Lance, struck suddenly by a horrible thought, lets his eyes flit to Coran—shoveling corn into his mouth most dutifully. Flecks caught in his garishly orange mustache. And yet, he notices no discomfort.

That will  _not_ be Lance.

"So, Keith," Allura begins afresh, and Lance observes the way Keith's fingers are beginning to tighten around his utensils. (Is he that ungrateful for all their attention? What an  _asshole_.) Allura circles her hand around the table to indicate herself, Pidge, Lance, and Hunk. "We were planning on checking out a music festival in Benison Springs this weekend. Would you care to join us?"

Lance's jaw fully drops at Allura's gall, as Keith says, "Oh, uh, I don't know."

When inviting someone along for well-established plans, one must always consult the well-established group first! Ergo, she  _has_ to be spontaneously inviting him for his looks. Lance is gobsmacked. How dare she break the friendship code for a random bad boy boy toy!

"Er, Keith," Hunk cuts in, and Lance wants to bite his own plate in half, "I don't know how much you like watermelon, but that one was grown right in our backyard. They're a real good batch."

"Um, actually, I'm allergic."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Hunk says at the same time Lance's fork clangs and he yells, " _Deadly_?"

No one acknowledges Lance's outburst, apart from Shiro with a reprimanding side-eye. Hunk starts apologizing profusely.

"No, it's fine, it's fine," Keith says. "It's not like I'll die, I just can't eat it or touch it, really."

Lance is so overcome by the racing thought  _How do I get watermelon on his body tonight_ that he almost doesn't notice, as Shiro reaches over to remove the bowl, that he's missing his chance.

"Actually, I want some!" Lance says. Shiro hesitates for a moment, sizing Lance up, then acquiesces. He hands over the watermelon. Victory is in the palm of Lance's hand. Everyone is watching him. "Yeah. Yeah." He gets a hearty spoonful. "I  _love_ watermelon, it's, uh, it's my favorite. Gotta load up. Gotta get those fruits in y—Whoops!"

The bowl "slips" away from him, splattering juice everywhere, but Keith was so readily out of his chair that he seemed to be  _expecting_ it. He dusts himself off, tugs down a jacket sleeves, all with his lips still pursed. His plate is drowned but he himself is just fine.

Oh, Lance  _hates_ him.

"Lance! Get some napkins on that!" Shiro orders. The din of exclamatory reactions melt down, the last of which being a sarcastic, "Way to go, genius," from Pidge.

Coran chuckles good-naturedly, and Lance has prescience enough of the table atmosphere to understand that whatever he has to add won't be good. "Little thoughtless, weren't we, m'boy? Happens, happens. Come, Keith, take my seat, it'll be quite clean just in case. We're already playing musical chairs."

"WHAT."

"Lance!" Shiro barks. "Mess. Now."

Lance growls and snatches up his own napkin, plus a few from the middle of the table, and begins mopping up the edge of the table and the seat of Keith's chair. Keith wordlessly trades places with Coran. Which mean's  _he's_ now right next to—

"I hope none hit you, Keith," says Allura, offering him a napkin.

Lance could swear the twitch of the lips Keith gives him is not only  _real_ , it's significant. It's a threat. It's an omen. He's going to—

Keith shrugs. "I'm good. It was an accident."

"Let me get you a new plate."

Allura ducks out of the room.

Coran, now seated next to Lance, who is standing with one hand full of sopping pink napkins and a raging bonfire of hatred in his chest, says chipperly, "Lance, m'boy, pass us the salt..."

Hardly paying attention to what he's doing, too busy glaring across the table, Lance reaches for the shaker and hands it over. Meanwhile, his head is stirring with another plan, something, anything he can do to humiliate Keith tonight, regardless of how Shiro will lecture him later.

"Here, Lance," Hunk says, glancing nervously between Lance, the napkins, and Keith, "let me throw those out for—"

"No, no, I got it, I got it."

Lance doesn't know if he's going to slap the napkins onto Keith's head or kick his chair leg out or both, but before he can decide, Shiro points to the corner of the room on their side of the table and says, "There is a garbage can right here, Lance."

He's correct. And probably has never been more thankful for his own interior decorating scheme. Allura returns from the kitchen, plate in hand, which she sets down in front of Keith, and suddenly, Lance sighs. No way he can do this in front of her. He should probably just grow up.

"Kobe," Lance mutters, dropping the napkins into the trash with a wet thump. He wipes a hand down his shirt and drops back into his seat, souring more every second.  _How_ did the night come to this?

The peace mostly restored, Shiro phases right back into a thoughtful dinner host. "So, Allura, have you decided on a top school yet?"

"The guidance office recommends applying to a reach school, but I've yet to find one that looks difficult to get into..."

The rest of their meal passes with Lance alternating between being hyperaware of Keith, and imagining scenarios wherein Keith sneaks into Allura's bedroom all coy and Allura turns on him with a knife kept under her pillow.

(She doesn't actually keep a knife under her pillow, as far as Lance is aware, but in his fantasies she can.)

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Lance changes into pajamas, grabs his movie night bag, and heads across the street with Alfor, Coran, Pidge, Keith, and Allura. He positions himself as nonchalantly between his future wife and the interloper as he can, in what is possibly as awkward a walk back as the second half of dinner was. Probably because, when Keith made a questioning glance at Lance following them out the door, Allura  _invited_ _Keith_ to movie night. Lance proceeded to squawk like a decapitated ostrich in shocked, wordless protest until yet another awkward silence descended, and Keith politely informed her he wasn't much of a movie person.

So Lance was safe on that front, but the fact still remained that when the movie was over, he would go home and and Keith would still be in the same house as Allura.

Sure, Lance would consider staying the night if his own bed, and night and morning routine, were not so important to him. (How could he crush the competition if he didn't look and feel his best?)

As soon as they get inside, Lance takes Allura's hand and tugs her up to her room. Alfor sends a concerned look their way, but is quickly distracted by a question from Keith about garage space.

Inside Allura’s room, Lance feels slightly more able to breathe. Every inch of it is familiar. Comfortable. He remembers when the walls were pink and there were horse posters on the closet doors. Now the closet doesn’t have doors and framed photos are the only things hung up. She has a messy desk in the same corner where she used to stack bean bag chairs like a mountain, covered with pages and pages of notes that Lance would never have the dedication to peruse, let alone write. The bed is queen-sized and primly made. There’s nothing on the floor except a shaggy white rug and a basket for dirty clothes.

Allura flops onto her bed and pulls off her shoes. "You wanted Kiera Knightly?"

"You remembered," says Lance, delighted, because finally there's no distractions and they can give their full attention to each other. ( _He_ gets  _her_ full attention without getting distracted by Keith.)

"It's not often you make a good suggestion, Lala."

"Hey!"

"Speaking of which," she says, and Lance's gut swoops low like a bird, "what was with you today?"

Lance tries very hard to make his face blank. "Don't follow."

He's quite good at building up necessary walls. As much as Allura is the crux of the whole situation, Lance doesn't want her to... well... know about anything. He's aware he can be petty and he tends to get caught up in things, but Allura is important to him, and if she knew what Lance suspected of her and Keith, she might get mad at him.  _Or_ , in a horrific, ironic twist, Lance might ensure that exactly what he fears will happen, happens. Maybe Allura is blind to Keith right now, but if Lance says anything, she'll  _start_ to notice him in that way, and one thing leads to another, suddenly they're taking a gap year for their honeymoon.

"Don't play dumb," Allura says. "All throughout dinner you were sending hate-waves at Keith. What gives? You don't even know him, Lala, you're supposed to be making him feel welcome."

"Pfff,  _that_ guy? Just look at him, he totally thinks he's all that."

Allura raises an eyebrow. "I've met guys who think they're all that. You can hardly get them to shut up. He's barely said a word to any of us."

"Clearly thinks he's better than you, then," says Lance. "Wait! Which guys are you meeting—"

" _Or_ ," Allura interrupts, heading to her closet, "he just doesn't know what to say. Turn around."

Lance huffs, turns to skim her DVD collection. "I thought Pidge said he was a kid, anyway."

"They said he was our age."

"Looks like he belongs in a junior biker gang."

He can hear Allura getting changed behind him. In a weird way, it's so calming.  _This_ is what he wants. This comfortable level of intimacy. He doesn't even want to sneak a peak or anything like that, he just wants Allura to trust him this way,  _really_ trust him, and maybe one day her feelings will finally slot into place, and they'll get to have their girl-and-boy-next-door romance.

"Well," Allura says, jogging Lance back to life, "if you really don't like him, you won't have much to worry about. I suspect he won't be here for very long."

Lance is so excited he almost forgets himself and spins around. "What does that mean?" he asks, heart hammering. "Did he do something wrong already? Oh, did he break your grandmother's vase?"

So many times, Lance almost crashed into that thing running through the halls as a kid.

"No," says Allura. "In fact, he's rather polite."

"Ew." Lance wrinkles his nose. "I don't want to know."

"What I meant—okay, you can turn around now." Lance does. She's in pajama bottoms and a tank top, her hair wound up in a knot on her head. "What I meant was, he probably won't be here long because his eighteenth birthday is in two months. He was very upfront with my father about leaving as soon as the law no longer required him to stay.

"Oh," says Lance, frowning. "He's  _eighteen_?"

"Seventeen."

"What is he doing in foster care? Who gives a shit at this point?"

"Lance!"

"No, I mean, not like that," Lance says quickly. "But, like, dude's all about being on his own, why not let him get on with it?"

It would certainly save Lance a lot of trouble.

"Eighteen in two months is still seventeen." She settles back on her bed. "Are we watching this movie or what?"

"Yeah. Do we want popcorn?"

"I'll go make some." Allura gets off her bed again and sweeps out of the room before Lance can remind her to make sure his has no butter. She's definitely upset. Lance wonders what he said to make her huffy.

She wasn't... offended on Keith's behalf? She couldn't  _like_ Keith, could she? Not already? She'd only known him a few hours, and he was as charismatic as a garden slug! She'd known Lance for years and years. If she was going to fall in love with anyone, it had to be  _him_ , the guy who could picture her face perfectly at night and knew by heart all of her usual orders at their favorite restaurants.

Anxious to quit marinating in shame, Lance makes for the bathroom to get a head start on his face mask. Only, the moment Lance steps out of Allura's room, Keith also comes out of the blue room. Lance is reminded all too suddenly what minimal distance separates these two doors.

They've made direct eye contact, so something's got to happen, but Keith clearly doesn't know what to say beyond, "Um, you look more comfortable in pajamas."

Lance narrows his eyes. "And you look like you're trying to join My Chemical Romance."

"Okay."

"Shouldn't Texans have big hats and neckbeards and say 'y'all' too much?"

"Some of them did," says Keith.

Lance turns up his nose. "And you couldn't find the decency."

"Um."

"Listen, mister," he says, cradling his bathroom bag with one hand and poking Keith hard in the chest with the other. "I know what you're after. Just know that it's not going to be that easy."

"Uhhhhhh?" says Keith, looking questioningly down at Lance's hand. Lance storms over it.

"And something else for your information! Alfor doesn't adopt. Shiro adopted both me and Hunk, but Pidge has been here for seven years and he's never even brought it up."

"That's great," says Keith, suddenly surly. He goes to push Lance out of the way. "I don't want to be adopted."

Lance wrenches open the bathroom door and steps inside with dignity. "Oh, I'll bet you don't, I'll just  _bet_ you don't."

"Actually, I want to get out of here as quickly as possible."

Keith keeps moving, his back now to the door, and to Lance.

"You know what?" Lance says. "We'd all like that too!"

He slams the door shut and nearly barricades it to get his point across.

By the time he finishes with his face mask, the hallway is deserted and Allura has settled into bed with two bowls of popcorn. She hands the one without butter to him. It doesn't seem like she's mad anymore. Lance is kind of relieved, but still mostly on edge. This night would go from bad to awful if she found out he argued with Keith. 

 _Not_ that she gets to decide who Lance likes or dislikes. It's really, once he thinks about it, hardly her business.

They sit down to watch the movie with Allura laying at the foot of her bed and Lance sitting on the floor, leaning against the mattress. But it eats at Lance. Knowing that Keith is just down the hall, doing whatever it is he used to do in life before he ruined Lance's—who normally loves this movie, but right now he can't concentrate on it at all. Elizabeth Bennett will say something absolutely scathing, and Lance should be dabbing his respect to her, but instead his glazed eyes are staring at the colors on the screen and he's wondering if Keith's skincare routine is as thorough, or if his pajamas are as soft, or if he even thinks anything at all of Lance.

They pause an hour in so Lance can scrub off his face mask, and it's like a nasty part of him wants to encounter Keith again so they can argue some more. He imagines it in vivid detail. Patting his face dry and looking up to see Keith in the doorway waiting for the bathroom. (Not that he would need to because his new  _bedroom_ has the best bathroom in the house.  _Lance's_ bathroom.)

"Lance."

He looks up from his towel. Allura is standing exactly where he'd just pictured Keith. She sighs.

"I can't micromanage your emotions, but you have got to stop. What's bothering you about him?"

"You don't know what I—" Lance begins, but Allura cuts him off.

"Don't insult my intelligence."

"Don't insult my ability to hide what I'm thinking," Lance says into the sink, petulant, wringing his towel dry so he can ignore the way she leans on her hip like a bad cop.

"So, you are hiding something."

Lance's hands pause on the towel, then he shakes the thing out. "No, I meant hypothetically."

"Sure," Allura says knowingly. "Well, would you mind if Keith gets a ride to school with us tomorrow?"

Instead of putting the towel neatly back into his bag, he ends up slamming it down, head bowed. "He's already  _enrolled_? I thought we just found out he was coming here today."

"Yes, he's enrolled, and it's none of your business. You're being insensitive. It's quite unattractive, you know."

Lance's spine goes rigid as she crosses the hall and shuts herself in her room. He glares at himself in the mirror. Closes his door as well so he can have a moment completely alone. He has to examine the whole situation.

Okay. Okay. Maybe he is taking it a little far.

But Allura is the only girl who has ever understood Lance. He's liked her for way longer than this—this—this hotter, badder dude who has no right to stroll in whenever he wants and separate them.

And Allura is letting him! She's taking a stranger's side over her best friend's instead of comforting Lance when he's upset.

Like, yes, okay, he can see that he's acting like a total d-head, but everyone knows the not-so-secret secret that Lance freaks out when he's insecure. So it's like Allura's taking shots at his insecurities. And then she's asking him to give his insecurities a ride to school. He doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't want to leave the bathroom but he knows if he stays here, Allura is just going to keep calling him immature in her head. He sighs, cleans up his things, and goes back to her room, where she's brushing her hair on the bed with the movie still paused. He's pretty sure, standing in the doorway now, he was never mad at her.

"What's up, Lala?" she asks quietly, because he hasn't come in yet.

"Can we get ice cream?"

"I think we only have sherbet downstairs."

"What kind?"

"Um, orange." She keeps on brushing her hair.

Lance says again: "Can we get ice cream?"

"What, you mean like going out?" she asks skeptically, setting the brush on her bed, where it immediately disappears inside her snowdrift of blankets. "It's nine at night and we're both in pajamas and I don't have my face on. Plus, you just did a mask and we're halfway through Pride and—"

"Please."

She must catch a glimpse of what's going on in his brain because she softens. "Let me go ask my father."

They walk down the hall together, Allura heading for the downstairs office and Lance heading outside and across the street so he can clear off the passenger seat of his car. Eventually, Allura comes out to meet him in her bottoms and a t-shirt, but by then he's finished and sitting ready in the driver's seat. She gets in without saying anything. He starts driving.

"Oh," says Allura. "Did I tell you? Someone bought the shoes from that shop."

"Yeah." Lance reaches into the backseat. "They did."

He produces a box almost too big to be held in one hand and passes it over to her. She takes in it, then him, her lips parting in astonishment. "You didn't," she says softly.

She opens it.

Lance keeps his eyes on the road. "I was going—ahem. I was going to fill it with nothing but confetti and then show you the real shoes."

"Lance."

She leans across the middle console, hugs him.

"Allura." He can't tell if his throat caught saying her name. He hopes she doesn't notice. He really hopes he doesn't start crying because then he would have to pull over and that would make a whole big deal out of it and he would just feel pathetic. "I do a lot of things without being asked, but it seems like... I feel like... No one ever thinks to... It's like everyone just treats me like I never... I'm not—I mean—I don't think I am the way everyone assumes I am. Am I?"

He feels guilty and embarrassed for hinting at even a vague fraction of what's been on his mind lately. The truth is, Lance knows not everyone is perfect, himself included. He's always been too much. He gives and gives, but nobody  _wants_ too much. Nobody likes too much. No one tells the sun it's doing a great job once they've gotten heat stroke. No one tells a blizzard to keep burying the sidewalk in snow. Lance is like that. He knows it. He tries too hard and buries people in something that deserves moderation. He knows it.

But it still hurts to think about.

"Lance," Allura whispers.

"It's fine." He clears his throat, keeps his eyes on the road. There's no one else driving through town at this time of night. "You don't have to say anything."

She bites her lip, rubs a hand along his shoulder. Lance begins to wonder if she  _will_ say something anyway.

"I think we've all had a crazy day." She puts her hand back in her lap. "You'll feel better in the morning."

 

* * *

 

The Ice Cream Joint, as it is titled by a curly, retro-style sign, ("The Joint" to local, hilarious teens) has a wide parking lot and serving windows both outside and inside. There are picnic tables to the side of the building on a patch of ground that used to be grassy but is now dirt packed firm from summers and summers of people walking over it. An arranged-letter sign underneath the neon one declares their doors will be closing for the season on October 1st.

As such, there are not many people braving the impending fall weather for soft serve. Lance gets out of his car and Allura follows, studying him as they cross the gravel parking lot. Inside, she remarks, "You're quiet."

And Lance shrugs. They lag a few feet away from the counter to read the menu. There's no one else in line.

"You know I didn't mean to make you upset earlier, right?" Allura continues. "Things are out of balance right now."

"Okay," says Lance.

"I told you what I was feeling about the matter with Keith because I respect you enough to be honest with you."

"Okay," he says again.

"I also know that you're strong enough to overcome anything anyone says about you."

Was he, though? Maybe if that person wasn't Allura, someone he trusted implicitly. Maybe anyone else.

"I  _also_ know you're too headstrong to  _listen_ to anybody anyway," she says.

"Ha."

"I also also know that your smile is bigger than that." She takes hold of his arm, hugging it, imploring him.

"What do you want?" he asks her. "My treat."

"One large smile, and I want it for free."

"Um, they have rocky road."

Now, she's swinging his arm, bumping his hip with hers, hanging off of him with the devoted sort of attention Lance has been craving all night, only it's too late. Now he feels separated from it all. "Come on, Lance. I  _am_ sorry, but you have to admit you were also behaving poorly."

"Yeah, okay, fine, but can we not talk about it for a minute while I try to settle down?"

She slowly lowers his hand back down to his side but keeps holding onto it, and although Lance still feels kind of empty, the deepest part of himself feels warm.

Heidi Lurchin appears behind the counter lugging a tub of ice cream, which she replaces in an empty spot on the counter line-up, and Lance almost doesn't notice how cute she looks in her teal baseball cap and apron. He steps up to the counter with Allura. Heidi glances at their interlinked arms, smiles at them both, and scoops their orders.

"Paying separate?" she asks as she rings up Lance's.

Lance, taking out his card and surrendering it, says no.

Allura is strangely quiet the whole time, including as they go to sit down, but once they're in a booth, she slaps Lance's forearm from across the table and hisses, "Did you see that?"

Lance jolts up, looking around reflexively, but there's nothing abnormal happening. "What?"

"Heidi was totally jealous right now."

Halfway to his mouth, Lance's spoon takes a dive to the table. He checks over his shoulder. Heidi is still behind the counter, on her phone, completely oblivious to them both.

"That's not true," Lance says, because it can't be. Why is Allura filling his head with this kind of stuff?

"It so is. She totally gave you eyes."

"I think you're misinterpreting." Lance picks up his spoon and tries to act normal, but it's like he's been electrocuted and all of his body functions have switched around on him. He's on the soccer team? He can't even coordinate his hand and his mouth. "Girls have beautiful eyes all the time and it's impossible to tell if them looking at you means anything."

Allura shakes her head, smiling. "You are so hopeless. Fine, don't believe me, but it totally happened."

"For the sake of my sanity, I choose to not believe you."

"She could make all your dreams come true, though," Allura sings. "Weren't you going to tell her she smells like yogurt, or something?"

"No, I was going to give her flowers and tell her her laugh sounded like music."

"Hmm... Significant that you remember." She pops her spoon in her mouth and says again, "Hmmm..."

"Even if she  _did_ give me eyes, I don't even want to think about that right now," Lance insists, "because we came here tonight so I could hang out with  _you._ "

Allura's face falls slightly. She swirls the melting edges of her ice cream. "Yeah, but that's..."

"Never going to happen," Lance says confidently. "I know, I know. I don't know. I just needed to hang out with you. You're important to me, and I feel like it's easy for people around me to slip away or have other people they'd rather spend time with."

Allura bites down a smile and touches his hand across the table. It doesn't put butterflies in his stomach or make his heart flip, but he still knows that she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

" _You_ are my best friend," she says resolutely. "When people ask me, I tell them that. I talk about you when you're not in the room and say nice things about you if I hear people gossiping. And, okay, yes, sometimes I put distance between us, but that's not because I want to hurt you or because I don't want you to be my friend. It's actually for two entirely logical reasons: first, because I'm my own person and sometimes I need time to myself. But I always tell you what's going on, right?"

Lance doesn't know if she expects him to answer. He's too busy listening carefully, so she goes on anyway.

"Secondly, we both know I know you have somewhat-serious feelings for me, and while I treasure every moment we spend together—well, almost every moment, I haven't forgotten about you spamming the group chat with pictures of founding fathers dabbing—I would never want to lead you on because that would only hurt you more. Do you get where I'm coming from?"

Lance clears his throat, rubs at tired eyes. "Yeah, I get it."

There's a long pause. He wants to say more, and Allura knows it, so she's patient with him.

"I'm just sad sometimes," he admits. "Because something will happen and I'll get reminded that I'm not going to be the person doing things for you. Like, I want to do everything for you sometimes, and I'm not saying that to be creepy or make you feel bad, I'm just saying it so you know what's in my head. I don't want things to change. I like having the space I have in your life and I like having you in mine and I don't want to lose it so I get defensive."

"You have nothing to worry about, Lala."

"I know, but still."

"The only way I would ever get mad at you is if you did something dumb like hold a grudge against a stranger who is literally just trying to live their life, Lance." She shakes her head and laughs grandly. "But that would never happen!"

"Alright, I get it, I get it." She made him smile, he has to admit. And he does feel a lot more at ease. Crummy, but at ease. "I'll try being nice to Keith. Just promise me things won't change."

"Of course not," she says.

Lance takes a bite of his melty ice cream, waiting for it to sink in. He shakes his head.

"Nope, doesn't feel real yet."

His elbow thumps onto the table. He holds out his pinky finger to her. "Promise me," he says seriously, "things will not change."

Allura smiles and links her pinky with his. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY LANCE  
> (lance: i cant swim)


	3. Chapter 3

Rain clouds roll in overnight, leaching all the good out of the morning. And yet, Lance surprises even himself with his firm, continued determination to follow through on his promise. He is committed. He is not backing down. He is going to try this whole "giving Keith a ride" thing. For Allura.

There's no conversation between the two brothers as they sit outside Allura's house. The usually chatty Hunk is preoccupied with his phone, screen angled just slightly away, meaning Lance can't even snoop, which leaves him bored, drumming his hands on the exterior of the car just below the open window and looking at all artificially-shaped bushes on the street. Finally, the front door opens.

Pidge is the first one out, then Allura, and then... well, then Allura closes the door behind her and locks it. She heads for Lance's car with a sheepish look on her face. Lance sticks his head out the window. "Where's—?"

Allura opens her mouth, but at that moment, her garage growls like an avalanche monster, scaring Lance badly enough that his hand jerks on the wheel and his horn stutters out a weak  _beepbep_. The sliding door clatters open and out speeds a stranger on a motorcycle, clean down the driveway and up the road, past Yvette, without so much as a glance at the rest of the world.

Only it  _isn't_ a stranger.

"That was totally Keith!" Lance shrieks, pointing after the cinematic cloud of dust left in the wake of the still rumbling engine, now revving in the distance.

Allura brushes her hair behind her ear and leans her face down right next to Lance's window (he gets a flash of a daydream where they're exactly here, except they're together, and she kisses him hello before climbing in the backseat.) Instead, all she does is smile bashfully and say, "I thought he would need a ride. I didn't know."

"Where did he get a  _motorcycle_?"

That's so—so—so  _like him_. Ugh. Turning his nose up at Lance's friendship, showing off, a walking stereotype. Maybe Lance isn't allowed to hate Keith on Allura's behalf without feeling guilty, but he can totally hate him for pulling stunts like that.

"Lance," says Hunk, nudging him.

Lance realizes that Allura and Pidge are both seated and buckled, so now it's his job to drive. He grimaces and yanks back the gearshift, checks mirror and shoulder, and eases onto the road. In his  _sensible car_. Maybe Keith would wipe out on the way to school and they would all pass the accident, and Lance would think,  _Hmph, sounds about right_ , and Allura would gasp in horror, and Hunk would freak out, and actually, no, that would be really traumatic, Lance doesn't want to see that, he kind of just wants to go to school and take his math test.

They arrive in time for homeroom without witnessing any accidents. Lance keeps an eye out for Keith's motorcycle in the parking lot and spots it closer to the front doors. He scowls.

"Isn't he supposed to get a permit for that?" he asks loudly.

No one answers him.

"And how did he know where the school was? He just moved here yesterday. Does he have a motorcycle GPS?"

No one answers him. He's starting to feel like Coran, so he shuts up.

(But it eats at him.)

They break off from each other as they walk inside, Lance heading in one direction, Pidge another, and Hunk and Allura yet another. He manages to calm down a little on his walk to his locker, and by then the first bell has rung and Mr. Capot's math class will be gathering at the end of the hall. He prepares himself. The second he walks inside, a cloud seems to fall over the room.

...Keith is turning eighteen. So he should be a senior, right? In a senior-level math class? So, what is he doing stinking up Lance's average-level _junior_ math class? Did he get held back a year? Does he suck at math? Did he get punished for delinquency? The possibilities are endless and Lance is... well, apart from the fact that this means he has to share a math class with Keith, Lance is  _living_.

He stands transfixed in the doorway, staring at Keith who doesn't notice because he's distracted on his phone, until Mr. Capot says from his desk, "Lance, we have a new student. Hand off the notes you copied yesterday to him."

In his head, Lance is like,  _Boy, sure do hope I still have those_. He slings his backpack over over his chair, unzips it, finds the slightly wrinkled notes sticking out of a Gryffindor folder, and surrenders them coolly, wordlessly, to Keith, who flips through the pages, frowning.

Lance raises his eyebrows. "Got a problem?"

Keith glances up, then back down at the notes.

"Since you asked," he says flatly, "what the hell are these?"

And what does  _that_ mean? What is this guy's attitude, even? Where's it coming from? Is he trying to call  _Lance_ stupid, when  _he's_ the one who can't even keep up with his own grade level? Still, the accusation makes Lance's heart rate spike, like maybe he  _has_ done something wrong and his arch enemy is about to make a fool out of him in front of the entire class—but he forces himself not to show any fear. Confidence is key.

"Um? My notes."

Keith squints, clearly unimpressed, and rakes his eyes once over Lance's affronted hands-on-hips appearance. Raises an eyebrow. Slowly. "What did you do to them?"

Snatching back the papers, Lance riffles through, further upsetting the already strained staple. "They're literally f—oh."

Lance is a doodler. It helps him retain things. Also, he provides color commentary when class gets boring to keep himself from smashing his brain open on the desk. Right on the first page, he can read his own handwriting defining pie charts as  _ways to show percentages_ , line graphs as  _ways to show change over time_ , bar graphs as  _ways to compare figures_ (whatever that means), and stem-and-leaf plots as  _literally useless_.

Still, he can't acknowledge any faults in front of Keith of all people.

"It's fine," Lance finishes, passing the notes back.

"It's looks like—" Keith begins, then stops himself with a sigh. "You know what, nevermind, it's fine, whatever."

"You're welcome."

Lance takes his seat, aware of the eyes on the back of his head and the dense silence, but not feeling anything other than smug at it. From his desk in the corner, Mr. Capot speaks again.

"Mr. Kogane, you're exempt from the test today."

 _Ko-gain_ he says, and Keith inhales loudly through his nose. "Okay," he responds. "But it's Ko-gah-nay."

"Sorry," says Mr. Capot, half meaning it as he goes back to sorting through piles of papers. "Kogane."

As their teacher moves to the whiteboard, Lance mutters just loudly enough, "Not like you need math to go tearing down the highway without a helmet anyway, flunky."

A hand grips Lance's shoulder tight enough that he winces. An angry voice is suddenly hissing, "Did I do something to—"

"Let's get everyone in their seats. We're ready to start," Mr. Capot says.

The hand falls away. With a rustle, Keith plops back into his seat, leaving Lance alone to absorb the knowledge that he doesn't have to hate Keith as a jealous thing over Allura, but him acting too cool for Lance's truce ride, insulting Lance's notes, and being a general dick is enough reason to hate him on his own merit. So that works out. Nothing has to change and Lance has a case for the next time Allura tries to jump down his throat.

Once he finishes his test, he passes the rest of the class doodling extra hard.

 

* * *

 

It’s drizzling on and off through soccer practice, and Lance, striker, is up to his neck in mud. Bryce is in goal and not making it easy for him—which, hey, is something to his credit at least, because if he can't play like he means it, what's the point of him even being captain—

(Beamers saves a shot on goal. There’s no one near him. He has time to think about where he’s going to aim to get the ball out of there—)

—but even during practice, sometimes it still feels like he’s got some kind of a vendetta against—

Suddenly, there’s a flash of white streaking toward Lance, one hearty _thwack_ , and he's looking in an entirely different direction because his head and face have gone sideways. His left eye _burns_. His ass is wet again and he knows it’s because he’s fallen in the mud, and Christ, his tailbone stings, too.

Did that really just happen?

“McClain!” calls Coach. Practice stops. He and a few other members of the team jog over as Lance pulls himself together, climbs to his feet. “You alright, pal? Can you walk it off?”

And suddenly, Lance erupts.

“He fucking did that on purpose!” He points at Beamers, who is lagging at the back of the circle in a very un-captainly fashion. “I fucking saw him target me!”

“Whoa, McClain, just calm—” Coach begins, but Lance doesn't let him get a word in.

“He’s pissed because he lost the election and he hates me for no goddamn reason. Maybe I beat you because you’re a pathetic sack of shit who tries to take revenge on people for being better than you!”

“Alright. Alright. ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Coach bellows. He’s got a hand in the middle of Lance’s chest and his eyes are cold and commanding. “Go to the nurse and get that looked at.”

He points at Lance's face, then wipes some sweat from his upper lip. Lance can recognize that this order is only partly to do with his health. Coach wants him off the field. He, Lance, the _victim_ , is being shunted into the corner to keep peace.

 _Fine._ He doesn’t _want_ to be here.

“Bunch of bullshit,” he says over his shoulder as he storms off.

It’s like he can’t even catch a break. Everyone is against him. It doesn’t matter what he does so he might as well get all his anger out anyway.

He tracks mud in through the front doors of the school, still dripping, and hangs a left toward the offices wing, where he runs into none other than Heidi Lurchin coming down a set of metal stairs. She’s, no surprise, as beautiful as ever, and next to her Lance looks like a bridge troll whose bridge did a few rounds inside a sharknado. She stops abruptly when she notices the state of him.

"Lance! Jeez, what happened to you?"

_Be mean or be nice? Be mean or be nice? I'm so mad, but she's so pretty, be mean or BE NICE!_

He waves a hand, working hard to keep it casual. "Just a... whole little thing at practice. I shouldn't get into it because it was a thing with Bryce and you guys are friends." He scratches the back of his head, feels the copious amount of muck in his hair.  _Ew_.

"Well," she says, shrugging, "just because I'm his friend doesn't mean he gets a free pass when he's shitty. Hey, speaking of—"

She touches his arm. She  _touches_ his  _arm_.

"—I'm really sorry... about yesterday... Jasmine and Bryce have been talking with each other a lot lately and sort of feeding the worst parts of their personality into each other, and I don't know what's— Anyway, listen to me complaining about my problems when you clearly have a lot going on yourself."

"No, that's... that's alright. I don't mind listening to you talk."

She beams at him, touches two fingers to a spot on her neck, like she wants him to see how long and smooth it is. "Ha, yeah, um. So. It's a shame we didn't really talk much last night. You know, when, um, when you and Allura came by The Joint."

"Oh, yeah!" says Lance, recalling it as though it were weeks ago. "I wasn't expecting to see you there."

He remembers Allura implying that Heidi might somehow be interested in him, and now, with the feeling of her soft fingers still burning his arm, the memory makes his stomach do flips.

"I hope I'm not, you know, intruding or anything," Heidi says, "but you didn't look... super happy... when you were talking to her. I hope there weren't any, like, problems or anything."

"Big problems," Lance blurts, hardly thinking, just because someone finally _asked_. "I don't know. Everything's a mess right now and Allura's confusing since everyone knows I like her way more than she likes me, but I still keep holding out hope that she'll change her mind, even though that's not fair to her, but—"

Heidi's face has dropped like a bowling ball off a cliff, Lance finally realizes. He backpedals. Shit.  _Shit!_

"Sorry," he says immediately. "I don't mean to be, uh, talking about her while I'm talking to you. Not that we're, you know, necessarily talking like  _that_. Um."

He clears his throat while her eyes scan the floor.

"No, it's cool, it's cool," she says, and indeed she sounds very cool herself. She hugs her notebook a little tighter to her chest, in that blue sweatshirt she got last fall, and— "Um, so what's new? What do you think of that new kid?"

It's a classic record scratch moment. Lance feels his guts turn to water and splash somewhere down by his knees.

"N-new kid?"

"Yeah. I think his name's Keith. A lot of the girls think he's pretty cute and stuff, and I don't know... I don't know what I think yet because I haven't really talked to him..." She trails off on purpose.

Unable to contain his sudden spike of contempt, Lance gives a guttural scoff. "Of  _course_ girls think he's hot," he says, fists clenched at his sides. "Of course."

Heidi laughs a little. "I mean, can you blame them? He's definitely not  _bad_ looking."

She cocks her head, touches that same spot on her neck, this time with her shoulder.

Lance says, "Okay."

Because that's all he can and should do. She's watching him carefully.

She spares a casual shrug and continues, "But no one knows if he's even single, or if he'd want to ask anybody out here, so—"

"Hey, quick question," Lance interrupts sharply. "What's the point of you saying any of this to me?"

She blinks in surprise. "What?"

"Like, why are you talking about him to me? Like, what's the point of that? Like, why is he even relevant to this conversation which is just between two people, us, not him?" He's never understood the phrase 'seeing red' before, but now, riding out this string of furious words as though they might relieve some of this tension building inside him, his vision has gone bloody. He can't stop himself from being angry with her. She's _doing it on purpose_. "Like, does it look like I like talking about him?"

"Um..." Heidi says quietly, hugging her books tighter to her chest, shrinking like a turtle relapsing into its shell. "You're, um, clearly having a bad day, so I'll let you get on with the things you need to do."

She hurries past him.

For a moment, Lance watches her go, just standing there, thoughts circulating, brazen in a different way than usual, before deciding that even if he wants to deal with this, she just walked away, so it doesn't even matter. He heads down the hallway before taking an impulsive detour straight past the open door to the nurse's office, instead making a long loop back around to the locker rooms. There, he grabs his bag out, digs through it for his phone, and calls Hunk. He's hardly aware he's doing it, it's like he's watching his body make the decisions for him.

" _Hello_ _?_ " Hunk eventually says. Lance gives no preamble.

"I need you to come pick me up."

There's a beat of silence.

Hunk says, " _I thought you had practice._ "

"It's shit!" Lance snaps, more so venting than directing it at Hunk. "It's all shit, and I can't be here right now. I want to go home. I don't want to wait for the late bus."

" _Whoa. Dude, did something happen?_ "

"Tell you when you get here. You're not in the middle of anything, are you?" he asks as an afterthought. Usually this is when Hunk watches cooking shows and follows along in the kitchen, or, if he's feeling lazy, pops on HGTV and takes a nap on the couch.

" _Nah, I'm on my way right now. Meet you at the parking lot in fifteen_."

"The one behind the school, not the one by the soccer field."

He hangs up, slings his bag over his crusty shoulder, slams the locker shut, and heads back out into the thin, whipping wind. The parking lot is sparsely decorated with muddy cars. Raindrops are infrequent but sting when they hit. Lance sits on the curb with his bag in his lap and waits. After twelve minutes, Hunk pulls up in Yvette, parks her, and begins to climb out of the driver's seat. Before he can hand over the keys, Lance stops him.

"No. You drive. I'm too mad."

He's not sure why he is still mad. He's not thinking about anything in particular, so it must actually be everything. Everything all at once. Coming to a point.

Lance throws himself into the passenger seat and Hunk gingerly gets back behind the wheel. The seats are getting all muddy and it doesn't even matter. Lance will clean it up before Hunk has to sit here tomorrow, he knows it, he just wants to get home as fast as possible.

Hunk turns Yvette around and exits the lot. He gives the tense silence a minute to settle before asking, "So, what happened?"

Lance sighs. Rubbing his face ends up wiping some of the dried mud away. He devotes some superficial thought to finding the words, but he's too angry, too  _exhausted,_ to follow through on any of them. "Please," he mutters, "just drive."

"Okay, but dude, you're freaking me out a little..."

So Lance tells him the whole story, regardless of tact or word choice, and by the time he finishes, they're pulling up in the driveway. Lance gets out and slams yet another door. From over the hood of the car, Hunk stares at him.

"It's like the last good thing to happen to me was winning the election, but I missed it, and now it's just fucking everything up, so it's like why do I even bother trying to achieve anything? Why the fuck do I get out of bed in the morning? I should let Bryce be president and let Keith have Allura  _and_ Heidi and whatever other girl he wants, and, and I really just don't give a shit anymore. Thanks for the ride."

Again, the last consideration was an aside as he turned back toward the house. He didn't hear Hunk behind him so he silently kicked his shoes off in the doorway and went straight to his room.

For the rest of the afternoon, he did not speak a word to anyone, not even over text. As soon as he dropped his bag, he got in the bath and scrubbed away all the mud, then drained that water and drew up a second spa bath full of bubble-bomb and muscle relaxants, and he pinned his drying hair back so he could do a face mask on top of that.

Even Shiro did not disturb Lance, which meant Hunk must have warned him off.

Just as well. Lance was sick of people. He let the bubble-bomb do its thing.

When Hunk called dinner, Lance reluctantly drained the tub, feeling slightly more at peace, and went downstairs ready to make himself a plate and retreat again. Feeling better though he was, he was still in desperate need of some alone time.

But what he saw when he got to the dining room gave him pause.

Garlic knots laid out on the table. Spanish rice. Meatball soup and—Lance bit his lip—animal shaped chicken nuggets. Hunk had ticked down the boxes of Lance's favorite foods, even if they didn't go—um,  _perfectly_ —together. And knowing Hunk, there would me homemade cookie dough sitting hidden in the fridge right now, waiting to be baked for dessert.

"Sorry you had a rough day, buddy," says Shiro, messing up Lance's hair from behind as he slides into the room and lets a copy of  _The Hitman's Bodyguard_ fall onto the table. "I know you were bummed we didn't get a chance to see this one when it came out, so I picked it up on my way home. Let's watch it tonight."

Hunk enters from the kitchen, simultaneously depositing an apron on its peg around the corner. "Everything look alright?" he asks, like he doesn't even  _know_.

Lance is speechless. He shakes his head minutely, in wonder rather than response, and he's biting his thumb as he tries to come up with something to say. Shiro swats his wrist.

"Stop that. It's a bad habit. Sit down, I'll get you a plate. Oh, Hunk, do we need bowls?"

"Yeah, they should be on the counter."

"Great. Take a seat," Shiro says again, and Lance numbly obeys. He can't explain  _why_ this is making him feel the way it does. It's a little pathetic, honestly, to have this inordinately warm glow brought out by a little bit of food, but it's too comforting for him to try to dismiss it.

He hears Hunk's chair squeak across from him, but he doesn't see it because his head is buried in his arms. He might a little bit want to cry. He's just been so  _stressed_.

"Dude," Hunk says, and Lance can hear a smile in his voice even before picking his head up, "are you okay?"

Lance holds his fist out for a knuckle-bump, which Hunk returns with surety.

"Thanks, man," is all Lance can say.

It's like opening himself up to a bright spotlight in a greenhouse. He feels  _better_.

Shiro returns with plates and bowls, and they all eat together. That night they watch their awesome action movie (but do, coincidentally, have to pause partway through so Hunk can bring out a tray of chocolate chip cookies.) (He happened to have some stuff lying around for them, Lance, so what?)

 

* * *

 

_gremlin added [Unknown Number] to the group chat.  (This user is not in your contacts. Would you like to add them to your friends list?)_

_gremlin: everyone, keiths here. keith, heres everyone_

_LaLaLura: oh god_

_LaLaLura: you actually did it_

_gremlin: good luck soldier ur on ur own_

_SUPcake: Oh hello. Nicknames are weird but hi it's Hunk_

_gremlin: it may have been a dare, but it still counts as his initiation. there is no escape now, keith. ur one of us_

_LaLaLura: its not official until you say something_

_LaLaLura: no, in the chat_

_[PresidentPenisHead changed their nickname to LaLaLance]_

_LaLaLance: whats going on_

_LaLaLance: lol_

_[gremlin changed LaLaLance’s nickname to LanceShmance]_

_[SUPcake changed LanceShmance’s nickname to the hero we deserve]_

_gremlin: ohhh good burn hunk_

_gremlin: it insults lance AND us at the same time_

_Unknown Number: Hey_

_Unknown Number: Don’t be offended but I’m probably never going to use this_

_the hero we deserve: not a problem!_

_[gremlin changed the hero we deserve’s nickname to yvette is my gloryhole]_

_yvette is my gloryhole: stop_

_yvette is my gloryhole: glory hole is two words_

_gremlin: OHHHH MADE YOU THINK ABOUT GLORYHOLES_

_gremlin: its a stylistic choice, like oxford commas_

_LaLaLura: OXFORD COMMAS ARE NOT A STYLISTIC CHOICE I WILL GUT YOU, YOUR LAPTOP, AND EVERYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR_

* * *

_(This is a private chat. You have no recent messages with this user. Start a conversation!)_

_lance: hey why did you do that_

_pidge: ??? do what_

_lance: just throw keith into the gc like that_

_pidge: we’re all hangin rn and allura was like “we gotta find a way for you to fit in more w/ the group” and i was like “HON HON HON” bc we havent rly hazed him yet & this isnt rly a hazing but its definitely a rude awakening so _

_lance: no but i mean like_

_lance: you know i dont like him_

_lance: so like why would you let him in w/o asking everybody in the gc first bc i wouldve said no_

_pidge: oh dude im sorry i didnt know_

_pidge: allura said she thought it would be okay_

_pidge: like she thought you were cool w/ keith now_

_lance: alluras not me. im me._

_pidge: well he pretty much immediately turned off notifications for it so i doubt hes really going to be in it_

_lance: whatever_

_lance: i wouldve said no_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr at glowstickhaloboy.tumblr.com !! i'd love feedback/comments. and hey, if you like the story so far, maybe send it to a friend who would too!! <33


	4. Chapter 4

The weekend arrives lazily, hand in hand with the first real days of autumn. As leaves everywhere dip, stiffen, turn orange, and then brown, Lance focuses hard on moving forward, almost convincing himself that the Earth is setting an example for him. (...By dying? Whatever.)

He's tired of locking himself in his room and moodily playing guitar at midnight. He has friends for a reason, and if he isn't careful, he's going to lose them. Now, standing in the mirror and buttoning up a pressed blue shirt, it feels easy. He's looking fine. It would be criminal to let anything bother him, even the possibility of Keith deciding to join their gang for the music festival. No one has gotten a for sure answer yet, but time certainly is running out.

And it's fine. It really is. If he does, Lance will just ignore him—politely, or whatever, of course—and have a good time with his friends.

He hopes the place that served that really good apply cider is there again this year.

"Lance!" Hunk calls up the stairs. "You almost ready to go?"

Not breaking away from the mirror, Lance yells back, "Yeah, yeah, putting on my second shoe!"

He's still in his socks, but Hunk doesn't need to know that.

A moment later, Lance enters the kitchen, where Hunk is leaning his butt against the counter, absorbed in his phone. Lance hasn't seen him this attached to the thing since the announcement of  _Masterchef Junior_ as a series in pre-production.

"You know what this is like?"

Hunk startles alert, but Lance continues, "It's like that episode of  _Friends_ were they walk into the coffee shop and there's a different group of rando's sitting on the trademarked couch. Except this is like if there was just one original friend sitting there with them. Do you have a secret group chat with the smart AP kids? You can tell me, bro, my heart can take it."

"Don't be ridiculous." Hunk stuffs his phone in his pocket. "What are you so dressed up for? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to impress someone."

"Can't a man dress nicely," Lance asks, turning to fix his collar in the reflection of the microwave, "for himself?"

"Uh huh, sure."

A thoroughly new man, he twirls his keys twice around his finger, grinning suavely. "We leaving?"

They head outside and into Yvette, with her painstakingly clean seats, and cross the very minimal distance to reach Allura's house. He's just texting her that they're outside when Hunk nudges him and nods toward the door.

And Lance isn’t quite sure— that is to say, he doesn't really— well, he’s— his brain stops working, strictly speaking.

Because, against all odds, there are three people walking towards his car. Keith  _is_  coming. Lance was sure he wouldn't be. Like, yes, he'd prepared for it, and said it would be fine, but he didn't think it would actually  _happen_ , since no one had specifically told him to make room for—

Next to him, Hunk inhales sharply. "Allura didn't clear it with you, did she?" 

He must be reading the look on Lance's face, the tense knots of his knuckles tightening on the wheel. Every feeling Lance thought he’d successfully smashed down the past few days boils right back to the surface. He can feel a sneer building low in his throat, tries to subdue it to little effect.  _That guy_.

"No. No one told me anything."

"But... it's okay, right?"

Lance grits his teeth and forces himself to take a deep breath. "I guess it's gonna have to be so I'm not the one who ruins the day for everyone, huh!"

"Dude, what makes you actually hate this guy so much? He hasn't—"

They have to stop talking because the door opens.

"Hi boys!" Allura trills, climbing through to the middle seat. She's in a silver puffy coat, jeans, and boots, her hair curling out underneath a pink hat. "I'm so excited!"

Pidge climbs in behind Hunk, Keith behind Lance. No one else says anything. A great sign. The doors _thunk_ shut. Lance thumbs the gearshift for a reluctant beat before finally putting the car into drive.

"Do we know which bands are playing, and when?" Pidge asks, monotone, clearly having gauged the situation and taken it upon themselves to do damage control.

Allura's phone appears in hand. "Oh, let me check online..." she mutters, already scrolling.

Hunk makes a few idle comments about last year's bands to fill the silence, but then Allura starts naming off some local groups and times, and she, Pidge, and Hunk start to work out a rough schedule for the day. Lance says nothing, concentrating hard on signaling his turns and checking corners. On an empty suburbia street. (They haven't even left Branching Crescent yet, which is just the main road to the town proper.)

On a normal day, it takes thirty-five minutes to get to the city from Slope Lane. Lance figures he can project a cold shoulder that long, easy. He once ignored someone for the whole year of eighth grade.

Except, they're all quickly reminded, today is not a normal day.

Traffic is backed up on the state route, and, by habit, Lance came up the back roads, which means he has to wait in a full line of cars who all had the same brilliant idea to make a left hand turn with no right of way. It's insane. It's Godless. As the minutes tick by, and the conversation smothers itself, and they all continue to sit there, Lance gets so irate he ends up hitting his head repeatedly against the headrest and making guttural complaints about people not knowing how to drive. He feels like an absolute baby, but his skin is crawling, so there's nothing he can do about that.

They inch forward. The car is silent. They sit. They inch forward. They sit in silence. They sit. None of them say anything.

"Well," Allura ventures breezily, "it was bound to happen on festival day."

"At least we're still pretty early," Pidge adds.

Hunk reaches for the radio, but before he makes it Lance lets out a loud groan, different from all the others. He knows he's ruining it, just like he said he didn't want to.

"I'm sorry," he says to the car at large. The shame finally washes through him. He relaxes, picking his head up and letting out a breath. "I'm not mad. Don't let me be a buzzkill. Hunk, pop in the aux and get her going. Today's supposed to be fun."

A little tentative, Hunk follows orders.

 _You see it_ , Lance thinks to yourself.  _You see them getting nervous around you. You're aware it's happening. Now fix it. Quit being such a baby._

"Just make sure your mysterious text friend doesn't interrupt our jams, ooooh," he says, a lame attempt at peace-making, and Hunk bites a lip and blocks Lance out with a sick drum beat.

The car eight cars ahead of them makes a break for it, and everyone else gets to inch forward. Lance turns the music up even louder and joins along with the music, banging imaginary sticks on the wheel, surprising not only himself but everyone else in the car. He still feels guilty. He doesn't want to feel guilty or ashamed or jealous anymore, doesn't want to make them walk on eggshells around him, because he knows how it feels to play things down and mute what you're thinking. He wants everyone to have a good time.

And he is pleased to discover he isn't even faking it. He genuinely needed something like this. A moment where he can be friends  _despite_. Despite everything, and whatever.

He points to Allura for the second verse, and like magic, she hops right in. She's practically bouncing out of her seat, she's so into it, and Pidge has their phone out to capture the pandemonium for Snapchat, and the old squad is bellowing the lyrics together like time out of nothing. That old spark.

They inch forward again. Lance happens to notice in the side mirror that even Keith is biting back a smile.

 

* * *

 

Parking for the festival is a madhouse, but eventually Lance finds a space on the very top level of one of those tiered parking garages. They take five flights of stairs back down to the street, pausing briefly so Pidge can snatch an informational flyer off the concrete wall, before they hit weak strings of sunlight. The wind is cold enough out on the street that it makes Lance glad he brought gloves.

"Where to first?" asks Hunk, scanning over the top of the bustling crowd.

Pidge reports, their nose sucked into the flyer, that Havoc Parade is playing in the park in twenty minutes.

"Don't we need wristbands?" Lance asks.

"Is that a thing?"

"No, yeah," Allura recalls, nodding, "we did have those last year."

"Keith and I can go grab some for everyone," Pidge offers.

"Oh, but you have the flyer, though. I'll go with him and we'll meet you at the park."

Hunk says something then, trying to settle plans, but Lance's panic response forcibly tunes him out. _Come on, don't get upset._ Probably nothing is going to happen. Allura volunteered to go because it was convenient, not because she  _wanted_ to go alone with specifically him, specifically alone.

But Lance realizes has the perfect excuse, a _better_ convenience in need of sorting.

"I should go with Keith," he interrupts confidently, and everyone sort of stares at him. "I have to get a parking pass from the table. Once we have the wristbands, Keith can meet you guys at the park, and I'll put the pass on my dash and meet you guys."

Still dumbfounded at the sudden proposal, perhaps trying to think their way into Lance's true reasoning, the others exchange a look. Hunk shrugs. He might be trying to convey,  _Maybe it'll be good for him_.

"Not a bad plan, I guess."

Lance claps a possessive hand on Keith's shoulder without even looking at him. He's acutely aware that his badboy buddy has said nothing since before even getting in the car. He says nothing now.

"Great." Lance smiles. "See you in a few."

He weaves his way down the pedestrian-filled sidewalk, Keith keeping up with little trouble. If  _they're_ alone, just the two of them, then that means Lance can get to know his new pal better without... well, without anyone else having to be there, with Keith.

It's not because Lance is jealous. It's just convenient.

They continue to not talk until turning the corner, where they nearly collide with the end of the bracelet line. They halt. Lance fiddles anxiously with his keys inside his jacket pocket. It's not as terribly awkward as he thought it would be, standing silently next to Keith, but he's certainly aware of the whole situation. Dude  _never_ talks.

"Hey, um, Lance."

Until now. Of course.

Wait! Lance is being understanding and compassionate. Right.

He does his best to keep his face impassive as he answers, even glances side-eye at Keith for a full second—who is wearing that same jacket as the night of the dinner party, the one that only covers half his upper-body, so he's either an idiot or immune to the cold. "Yeah?"

"Nothing, uh, just... Thanks for the ride."

"Yeah," Lance says noncommittally. "Why didn't you take your motorcycle?"

Keith shrugs. "Makes more sense to carpool."

"How'd you get it, anyway?"

"What?"

"The bike. Don't you need a special license?"

"Oh," says Keith. His cheeks are a little flushed, probably because of the stupid, inadequate jacket. "It was my dad's. We used to fix it up together. And yeah, I've got a license."

Lance purses his lips in thought for a moment, nodding, shuffling forward in line. "Ever crashed?"

"Not since it became mine," Keith answers, not missing a beat.

"Hmm. But you  _have_ crashed it."

"Why's it matter?"

"It doesn't, it doesn't," Lance assures him, clearing his throat in a very nonchalant way.

The line is, fortunately, moving quickly enough. There are plenty of wristbands (though they do all seem to be a hideous bright orange would only match a crossing guard's outfit) and they're being given out in a timely fashion.

"How are we splitting it?" Keith as they approach.

Lance shrugs. "Don't worry about it."

"What do you mean?"

"I've got it. Shiro gave me money to burn."

Keith's brow furrows slightly, like he's wondering if Lance is implying something, and hey, Lance wasn't, but now he is wondering if Keith is sensitive about money issues. Dude like that probably wouldn't have much compared to the son of an astronaut.

"I mean," Lance continues quickly, "we can split it if you  _want_ , but that sounds like it would be a pain since there's five of us and that doesn't go in half well."

"I'll cover mine and Pidge's," says Keith.

"Sounds good," Lance agrees. "They'll probably all pay us back anyway."

Keith raises his eyebrows. Neither he nor Lance says nothing else until they get to the front of the line. As soon as they have their bracelets, they're shuffled away, which explains why the line could move so quickly in the first place.

"So, the park is that way." Lance points Keith down the street. He doesn't think to lie and send him running around the city, but man, it  _would_ be a little bit funny. (Mean, though.) (But funny.) (But mean.) "It's got the iron fence, just follow that around until you hit the gate. Tell the others I'll be there in, like, ten."

"Okay."

Lance turns to go.

"Hey, Lance?"

He stops. Asks, "What?"

For a second, Keith just stands there, fidgeting a thumb against the stiff corner of a plastic wristband, and Lance is about to forget himself and snap before Keith says, "Just across the street, right?" and the way it comes out makes Lance sure that wasn't what he was going to say, but it's not like he cares that much, so he says yes and Keith immediately disappears into the crowd.

Curiously, Lance remains rooted to the spot for a little longer than normal, wondering, but then he reasons that the show isn't going to wait for him, so he heads back to the garage with his parking pass. The stairs are murder to climb back up, and by then his pass is all wrinkly and ugly, and it's such a lame trip to make, just to leave a small slip of paper on his dash, so he leans against Yvette's hood for a solid minute while he wrestles with his wristband. He could take his gloves off, but then his fingers would be cold all day, he just knows it. Finally, he gets it, and has nothing else to do but head for the park.

Being by himself is a little refreshing, he notices, and it makes him wonder what's gotten into him. He's never really enjoyed time alone before. Probably it's because he knows once he gets back to the others his moods are going to go all out of whack again. It isn't necessarily  _good_ when Lance is alone, but it's steady, and that's an easier alternative sometimes.

He thinks about what a useless gesture that whole thing was. No one is going to check for his wristband. No one is going to check where he's parked. What a waste of time and money.

A sizable crowd has already gathered around the outdoor stage by the time Lance shows up. The band is up there assembling their equipment, testing instruments and sound. He checks his phone. Set was supposed to start five minutes ago.

He peers over heads and around shoulders for his friends until he catches Hunk waving, close to the middle-front. He makes his way over.

"Everything all good?" he asks. Allura and Hunk nod in response.

"Check out this tweet," says Pidge, half a second before shoving a meme about guitars under Lance's nose. He reads it and snorts, then turns immediately to Hunk.

"Do you remember what time Shiro told us to be home by?"

"Uhh, no later than midnight."

Lance nods. The guitarist strums a few amplified octaves, says a brief greeting, introduces the band, and they start playing. The consensus of the crowd is  _hell yeah_. A lot of bored suburb kids wait all year for festival weekend and show up early to experience as much of it as they can. The first song is fast-paced, something about a wild girl going off breaking hearts, and it's, in Lance's opinion, a total banger. Allura purses her lips in thought at some of the lyrics, but she doesn't complain, so it must be safe to dance to, and Lance does, along with most other people in the crowd.

"You alright?" Pidge hollers.

That's when they all notice Keith looks a bit like a lost puppy. He gives a thumbs-up, making eye contact with everybody except Lance. "This isn't really my scene."

"Then why'd you come?" Lance blurts, for which he receives several shocked glares, and one shove from Allura behind him. The subject drops. They continue to enjoy the first act.

 

* * *

 

After that band leaves, a folk group takes its place. That—combined with the undeniable chill settling like a frostbite blanket—makes it a perfect time to stop into the nearby coffee shop, a place that usually reserves its stage for open mic performers, but, now that the big weekend has hit, has graciously offered its space to festival artists.

Lance  _loves_ coffee shops. He imagines they're what libraries are to nerds like Hunk and Pidge. Stepping inside, the place is already pretty full, and a teenage band is halfway through a song. A line stretches back from the counter almost to the far wall. Patrons are squished close in booths and at tables, fighting to recover from the fierce wind outside. Allura's hair has gotten all pushed back underneath her hat. (Still looks like a dream, though.)

"I don't mind getting everyone's drinks if you guys wanna find a table," Lance offers. "On me."

They all thank him and relay drink orders, which Lance copies in his phone, before realizing there are four people with him and he's being sent away with only three orders. He knows immediately whose is missing.

"Wait, hold on."

They all stop. Lance raises an eyebrow.

"Keith?" he asks politely. "You want anything?"

Keith turns shifty, eyes darting to the side before he says, "You don't have to get anything for me."

"I'm offering," Lance says flatly. "You can get something. I don't mind."

"I'm fine."

Lance nods and queues up alongside a row of impressionist paintings of fruits and flowers, content to hang out for a minute and observe the room. The coffee house itself is not large. There are booths toward the back and circular tables large enough to seat four near the stage, plus a few long rectangular tables in the middle. The window is a collage of flyers for local events. Inside is already a flurry without the help of a new age soul group playing a bubbly tune lacking lyrics.

The band is noticeably weird. Not in, like, a bad way, but in a way that draws your attention. It's comprised of four members: a keyboardist, a guitarist, and two bassists, three of them fitting in perfectly with their whole... image.

And what an image that is.

First of all, there's the sound, which is very sweeping, almost slow—it's sticky, Lance thinks, sticky like swimming in oil instead of water. The guitarist is center stage and appears to be wearing a size large pajama shirt on his twiggy frame, accompanied by psychedelic stretch pants and no shoes. The keyboardist has on these microscopic sunglasses with gradient lenses fading from orange to green, dark purple lipstick, a button-up vest which she has chosen to leave mostly  _un_ buttoned, and her dyed red hair is buzzed on the sides and slicked back down the middle. The bassist to the left has stubble and long black hair, which he keeps swinging around as he strums, and he's wearing cargo shorts and a corduroy poncho. And then there's the bassist on the right, who's just... not that. He's in dark jeans and a pressed blue shirt. His hair is neatly combed. All he does while playing is concentrate, not even sway a little. His eyes are focused completely on what he's doing and every movement is careful.  _He's_ the one who stands out, bizarrely, plucking away, calm and collected like he isn't even aware how curious this whole situation looks from the outside. Or maybe like he  _is_ aware, but he loves the feeling of playing enough that he doesn't mind.

Lance has been staring for so long that he almost doesn't notice Hunk waving from the doorway. He points at himself, then Pidge, then the door, and when Lance shoots him a face of deepest outrage, merely shrugs around his scarf and ducks out onto the street.

Part of Lance gives up in that moment. It's like the universe is  _trying_ to tell him something, so what's the point in rushing out of line, causing a scene, getting everyone mad at him. Clearly it's out of his control. He may as well get some coffee before his life is completely rewritten.

Still, he can't help but glance, and he's relieved to find Keith is more preoccupied with the band than the girl sitting with him, and Allura is looking at her phone. They've chosen a circular table near the stage. Even left a space between them.

The song ends, and the guitarist points to the oddly-normal bassist, says a few words commending specifically him for his dedication to the music throughout their journey—apparently those two were the first two members to start the band—and the bassist hardly acknowledges the crowd, just smiles at his bandmates, and Lance thinks,  _Geez, can you be more painfully humble? Moments of recognition don't come every five minutes._

It's finally his turn to order. He scratches off Hunk's and Pidge's drinks from his list, orders a latte for himself, tea for Allura, and a small black coffee. There's a cluster of people also waiting near the pick-up counter, so it takes a few minutes for his tray of drinks to slide out. They're in actual cups instead of to-go containers, he's pleased to notice. He heads back to the table.

"—attracted to outcasts, as you put it," Keith is saying as Lance draws near.

"Well, that's how you described yourself!" she says, giggling, and suddenly Lance's ears are screaming like a white-hot kettle.

"Back!" he declares, practically slamming the drinks down on the table in efforts to create a gap. Allura makes an encroached upon noise and scoots her chair over to make room. Lance passes over her drink first, then slides the black coffee deliberately, yet casually, in Keith's direction. "What did I miss?"

Neither of them can stop staring at the cup. Lance fights not to roll his eyes. Yes, he did it, but it's not a big deal. He doesn't even know  _why_ he made the gesture. It's not like anything's changed.

"What's this?" Keith asks.

"Coffee. You don't have to drink it."

Tentatively, Keith's fingers twitch, then shoot out and claim the cup. "No," he stammers, sliding it even closer. "No, um, thanks."

"There's cream and sugar over there."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Yeah."

Lance sits himself between them. Not intrusively. Just because it's the only option left. He takes a sip of his drink, which is obscenely hot—and he's feeling alive enough to make a face, so that's probably a good thing.

And Allura says, "Well!" suddenly enough that both Lance and Keith startle, and the former notices the latter's eyes dart away—always _watching_ him. "I'm going to the bathroom, now that there's more than one person to guard the table."

"You  _are_?" says Keith, eyes wide, fingers rubbing distressed circles over the handle of his cup.

"I am."

She sweeps off toward the back of the shop. Leaving... Keith and Lance... alone.

Lance tries a turn watching the band, projecting a hard wall to one side. He feels the oncoming words Keith is trying to conjure, knows they're coming, but actively refuses to help their coming out.

"I was going to ask," Keith begins at last, then stops himself, then seems to realize he now has Lance's attention and can't just throw it away. "Well, not ask, more like observe... I was going to say, you don't like me very much."

"When."

"What?"

"When were you going to say that?"

"Oh," says Keith. "When we were getting wristbands."

Suddenly too exhausted for words, Lance stalls with a sip of his drink. He tries to muster something meaningful to contribute but isn't really successful.

He says, "Caught the tail end of your talk with Allura, about outcasts, or whatever."

"What? How much?"

"Don't worry. It doesn't... It's got to stop meaning so much to me, you know. Who she likes and doesn't like. I always thought I might become something more to her, but it's just really not my place."

"We were... talking about the bassist," Keith says, stilted, with a nod toward the one in the button-down—who is still dutifully plucking out a low, chest-rattling rhythm.

Lance shrugs. He wants to slump forward on the table and moan about his suffering, but that hasn't really helped him as of late, so he settles for taking another sip of his latte. Keith isn't really the person to have a meltdown in front of anyway, since he was the start of this whole problem—but Lance...

Lance sighs.

Keith isn't the problem.

Lance is the problem. Or, at the very least, he isn't the answer.

"She's never going to feel that way about me, is she?" he murmurs. Not that he's really expecting a reply, and Keith does not grant him one. They sit in silence for a moment until the band finishes their song and clunks offstage. Now the room is filled instead with amiable chatter.

"Do you want a muffin?" Keith asks at length.

Lance scrubs his eyes. "No."

"Right."

A woman in her thirties with an acoustic guitar gets onstage, pulls a stool forward and, without introducing herself, announces into the microphone that her first song is called  _Spot for Fish_ , and that makes Lance wonder her name, what her story is, what events in her life led her to be in the same place as him, what she would have thought as she put herself together that morning knowing she was off to play a gig at a festival. How long has she been working at her music? If it isn't just a hobby, maybe she really loves writing and playing and has been thinking about today for months—and then she forgets to even say her name. Or did she say nothing on purpose? Does she do that because she feels fulfilled enough just doing what she loves and doesn't care who knows? Like the bassist? And Lance wonders if he might ever be them someday. Someone in control. An adult with a place and a routine and a few spare days on the weekend outside of a real job to spend some time strumming a guitar.

"Welcome back, Allura," says Allura, joining them again at the table. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

"No," says Keith, while Lance points and says, "This lady's playing now."

She sings:

 _There were waves where I grew up, oh  
_ _They’d rip me forward when I was stuck  
_ _Was it bad luck, was it bad blood  
_ _Some fish out there pray for floods_

Lance doesn’t really close his eyes, but he allows a single blink to sort of linger, and he thinks he likes this song.

 

* * *

 

After dropping the others off, Lance and Hunk make it back home a slim five minutes before midnight. The porch light is on but the house is dark. Shiro must already be asleep. Lance kicks off his shoes in the doorway, yawning, then immediately makes his way to the fridge for a snack. They had pizza like four hours ago, but he's starving for a something before bed.

"Do you think I was weird today?" he asks conversationally, now that there's no one around.

Hunk looks over from placing his scarf on its peg, distracted. He purses his lips. "You're the weirdest person I know."

It isn't a jab, so Lance allows himself to take it lightly; he sticks out his tongue.

"Nuh-uh. I'm not  _that_ weird."

"No, you're right, you're no weirder than the rest of us," Hunk says. "But compared to the rest of this week, I think you were Mr. Rogers. Hey, I know Keith coming here kind of upset the balance, but you're okay, right? You know he's not—like—you don't have anything to worry about."

Lance pauses with his hands on a dish of lasagna, surveying it with more intensity than the occasion calls for. "I don't know," he murmurs. "You don't think he's... kind of into Allura? Like, they might turn into a thing?"

There's a long stretch of silence. Hunk stands motionless for so long that Lance quits digging out his second dinner to check he hasn't left, or fallen asleep, or gone into a zombie trance.

"I can't tell if you're joking or not," Hunk says at last.

"Of course I'm not joking! I never joke about Allura."

Hunk blinks a couple times, rubs the corner of his eye with a whole palm. "No, I don't think Keith has a thing for her."

"Really, though?" Lance asks, eyebrows raised. "She's a catch."

"I think you're projecting," Hunk says matter-of-factly.

Lance loads his food into the microwave, wincing at every piercing beep as he sets the timer. "You're telling me you wouldn't date Allura?"

"That's... not at  _all_ what I... That's a completely different example. Like, you're just exaggerating to prove a point that's so outrageous it doesn't help your argument."

"Okay." Lance puts his hands on his hips, but that doesn't feel right, so he tries crossing his arms instead, until finally he settles on just fiddling with his offensively-neon wristband. "Okay," he says again, "well, then what do you honestly think of Keith?"

"Honestly?" Hunk says. "I think he's cool. I mean, he's quiet, but he doesn't seem like a horrible person at all. He's not even annoying. When you think about what Allura told us before we met him, we could've been stuck with someone a lot worse."

"But  _not the worst_ isn't the same as  _good_ ," Lance argues. (It's his final grasp at straws, pretty much, just so he can say he did it. He doesn't really know what he wants anymore. If Hunk should fight back or if Lance should just quit—either way, he's wrong and he knows it.)

"Dude. Listen to me. If you don't calm down, you're gonna piss off Allura and ruin all of your friendships."

"Well, why is it always _my_ fault?"

"Because you're the one who acts this way!" Hunk says back, equally defensive, and Lance makes a face.

"Does anyone ever question  _why_ , though?"

His brother sighs, scratching at an eyebrow. "It's because you blow things out of proportions. I hate to be blunt, but it's late, and I'm tired."

Lance catches the microwave just before it hits zero. He pops his lasagna out with quick hands. "I make things interesting. Ow, that's hot!" Hunk is about to walk out of the room, let it all drop, but Lance keeps muttering, "Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's just lukewarm and I'm blowing it out of proportion so that means I'm faking burning my fingers, so who cares."

His footsteps creak and fade. "Goodnight, Lance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bookmark this story if you want notifications on updates! Life is super busy but I'm chugging along pretty steadily between work, school, and writing. If you liked the story and think someone else might too, feel free to share it!! You can leave a comment here or find me on tumblr at glowstickhaloboy.tumblr.com :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i held off on updating a bit after nanowrimo because i was worried about what canon would or would not confirm
> 
> i am not worried about that anymore
> 
> (if canon refuses to crack lance open and show us whats inside, then I WILL DO IT MYSELF. anyway here's the bi crisis he deserved)

_LaLaLura: ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff_

_LaLaLura: fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff……………………….///………._

_Cuban imported meme: um allura_

_Cuban imported meme: are you okay_

_LaLaLura: ''''''''_

_Cuban imported meme: ???_

_TECH-SPECS: lol_

_LaLaLura: fffff_

_TECH-SPECS: Allura dropped her phone in the toilet this morning_

_spatulildo: Oh damn_

_spatulildo: Thats broken_

_LaLaLura: Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn_

_TECH-SPECS: Ahahhahaha she’ll press one button and it gets stuck omg this is hilarious_

_spatulildo: Hilarious?_

_TECH-SPECS: her father is a millionaire, yes it hilarious_

_Unknown Number: I don’t know. I don’t have a problem with him but sometimes he acts like an ass. Probably don’t know him well enough yet, and who cares._

_spatulildo: Alfor does???_

_spatulildo: Also hey Keith_

_spatulildo: OH_

 

* * *

After a painful string of distractions ping up on Lance's phone screen, the chat suddenly goes silent. At first he's puzzled. No one changed anybody's nickname to "Unknown Number," which would be weird anyway, and that message doesn't make sense—but then everything clicks as if an outside force pushed the thought into his mind.

Keith is in the group chat. He sent that message to the wrong place.

It is painfully obvious that "him" is not referring to Alfor. There's only been one ass-like person as of late.

Lance flips his phone over so it's face down on the desk, all thoughts of chemistry floating far out of reach. He feels how still his body has gone. He knows he's staring, just blankly staring, at a point somewhere between the wall and the floor, and he's self-aware enough to wonder if anyone has noticed. And at the same time, he's only thinking about this message. Has Keith caught his mistake yet? Is he panicking over it right now?  _Would_ he panic? How would the others react? Would they end up taking sides?

How will  _Lance_ react? He doesn't think he has yet, considering he's still just sitting there. He waits to get angry or even sad, but... nothing happens. And no one notices. And he has two evenly-matched urges currently battling for control of the hand closest to his phone. The more monstrous side wins. He checks it. No new notifications.

"Lance, I hope you're not zoning out next to a lit bunsen burner," Mrs. Kimbey calls from the front of the room. Lance gives her a mild thumbs-up and ducks his head down until the whole world becomes a single sheet of lab instructions.

 

* * *

 

After class, he drags himself to the cafeteria, brown bag lunch in hand, eyelids sagging at noon. His phone has not buzzed once since Keith messaged the group chat. No messages with an excuse, nor apology, nor any messages in his defense. He wonders if he'll walk through the doors and find Keith sitting in his seat.

What he finds instead is Allura, Hunk, and Pidge sitting at their usual table with heads pushed together, whispering. They don't even notice him approach.

"If he's even checked it yet," Allura is saying uncertainly.

"Well, we can't pretend it didn't happen," says Hunk.

"Maybe he won't know."

"Maybe," says Pidge, rubbing their chin thoughtfully, "we can steal his phone and delete the messages before he reads them."

Lance's bag drops down in his usual space and everybody jumps apart. He smiles at them. (His eyelids feel heavy.) "You guys planning a scheme without me?"

For a moment, it's just him and the loud, wrinkly bag. Everyones watches him pull out a water bottle, a sandwich made by Hunk, and a small bag of pre-sliced watermelon.

"Ah," says Allura, glancing at the others out of the corner of her eye with some sort of coded intention. "Lance. Um, how were your classes this morning?"

Pidge gives a full-on eye roll.

Lance shrugs. "Fine," he says, an intentional wall of either apathy or ignorance. They haven't figured it out yet because he hasn't either. "Found out we've got a math project coming up. That's gonna suck."

"Oh, I'll help you with it if you want!" Hunk offers, a little too quickly. "N-not that you couldn't do it on your own! I wasn't trying to imply that. I wasn't trying to imply anything! You're super smart, Lance. Like, sometimes I'm jealous of how—"

" _Hunk_ ," says Pidge, slapping their forehead in dismay.

Lance raises an eyebrow. "You guys okay?"

Again, they all share a look, like they might be daring to believe Lance doesn't know they'll have spent the entire morning talking about him behind his back. They're glad. He's giving them a chance to talk to him, and they aren't even trying.

It's a wall of apathy.

"Lance," says Pidge, pushing up their glasses with authority, "Allura needs to borrow your phone. You know, since hers is broken."

"Pidge!"

"She's too shy to ask."

He smiles again, wider this time because he cares less about how it looks. He's more swept up in the cinders of his stomach, the tightness of his knuckles. "Yeah," he says mildly, and passes his phone over to see what she'll do. What must his expression look like? He feels calm enough. He lets her swipe nervously for a moment before adding a perfunctory, "Wouldn't want to act like an ass."

All the air left over from their previous sigh of relief whooshes out of the room.

Hunk immediately shifts closer, his eyes apologetic but his tone brief and perfunctory. "Lance—"

"Do we even need to talk about it? I don't care. It happened. Let's just leave it. You guys know the truth anyway, and that's all that matters."

"I have something to say." Pidge sits up straighter, hands as flat on the table as the eyebrows on their face. "You  _are_ acting like an ass. There's no reason to pretend meeting someone new has to be this complicated. It's not like there's this dramatic shift in the balance of the universe going on and it's all Keith's fault. You can't keep blaming him because  _you're_ pushing everyone away with your shitty attitude. We all like Keith and you have to deal with it. There. I said it so no one else had to."

They sit back with their arms crossed.

There is a moment where the air slinks back into place, heavier after its travels. Lance drops his things one by one into his wrinkled brown bag, stands, doesn't look at anyone.

"I think I'm gonna go home alone today."

"Lance..." Allura reaches out like she wants to stop him, but Pidge interrupts.

"No, Allura. Let him have his tantrum."

Just like that, Lance goes. He's never really walked away from them before. Not like this. Not intending to because he was just  _mad_ at them. Because being near them stung. Beyond whatever anxieties he may live with, he has never genuinely worried about their friendship before.

He relocates his lunch to the library, where he claims a work desk and alternates eating and finishing his social studies homework, which he had planned on turning in late, but now he has the time to do it. Then he heads to class, but his skull feels like a bubble of numbness preventing any information from getting through. The clock's hands slog in their steps. It isn't until the period ends that someone breaks the pervasive silence: Allura.

She's leaning against a locker right outside the classroom door, his phone held with one hand inside her crossed arms. She holds it out to him. "You forgot to take this."

He takes it and just stands there, not really knowing what to do with himself. Still upset. It's never been hard to look at her before.

"I think you should come over after school," she presses on. Diligently. Ever the diplomat of the group.

He scoffs a little.

"You don't want me there." He doesn't say it because he wants her to deny it, but because he knows that, in no uncertain terms, Keith is right. Lance has been acting like an absolute ass. He  _knows_ it. He just doesn't know how to  _stop_ it, and he doesn't want to subject anybody to it anymore, and he can't look at any of them, so isn't it better for everyone if he just... doesn't?

"Lala. You're still my best friend. You always will be." She touches his arm, her fingers warm and ghost-like, something reminiscent of the summer they left behind. Fall has taken over in a bad way. "Give it some thought. We're all going to take the bus home, and, if you get out of practice and decide you want to come over, it'll make me really happy."

She makes the effort of a small, sympathetic kind of smile and walks away. He watches her disappear into a classroom four doors down.

Lance doesn't speak to anyone else until soccer practice, and even then it's just to snap at Bryce Beamers to leave him alone as they all jog out to the field. He sticks to what he knows. He plays hard, focused, venting. It's been awhile since he's thought about refining the practical basics of soccer, not trying to make himself better, more impressive, flashier. It feels good. He gives it his all, and after practice, he easily convinces coach to let him keep a few balls out and push himself.

It gives him time to think about a livid Beamers being unable to keep up with Lance's shots; he kept touching them and then watching them slip off the tips of his gloves. In the moment, Lance didn't feel good knowing he was doing better. That didn't matter. What mattered was that he, Lance, wanted to practice, and Beamers was not rising to the challenge. It kindled a smokey anger inside him that fed on the brisk autumn air, both of which combined made him somehow immune to the worst effects of the other.

He keeps kicking until he feels settled, or at least empty of tension. The smoke dissipates and fall wins out. He's cold, sweaty, and finally winded.

He gathers his muddy soccer balls and drops them off in coach's office before pushing through the locker room door. He thinks maybe he  _will_ go see Allura. Probably they have a lot to talk about. This afternoon will be the turnaround. This afternoon, Lance will see his best friend, and things will be both normal and better, and tonight he will sleep like a king.

Only one shower is still running, which is a little weird because definitely Lance should be the last person here, given how long he spent exhausting himself out there. There's nothing by the lockers, no bag laying out to indicate who might be the straggler. Lance figures he can—

"Lance."

He starts, not expecting his name to be called. He thought he was quiet coming in, so how did Beamers hear him? And what could he possibly want to say to Lance?

He hears Bryce say his name again, but it's different this time, hitched actually—and Lance's eyes go wide.

No.

_What?_

Time pulls altogether into this one eternal moment of syrup-like stasis, and Lance can catch every thought at lightspeed.

 _Beamers is gay?_   _Beamers likes Lance? Like THAT?_

And without warning the world then kicks into superfast motion, spinning and spinning, Lance struggling to keep up, realizing that if there's a particular track one is generally meant to keep their life on, he has been set incorrectly for awhile now, because he really missed something huge, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now that everything he knows has been thrown out the window. Everything's  _spinning_.

Things are changing, with or without him.

His locker clangs shut louder than he means it to, and, too panicked to care, Lance is through the gym, out the emergency exit door, in his car. Chest heaving.

He did  _not_ mean to hear that.

He wishes he  _hadn't_.

Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, Lance tries to take deep breaths. It's not that Beamers is gay. He doesn't care about that. It's that this  _whole_ time, Beamers has been gay for  _Lance_. After being the most  _annoying,_ most  _constant_ piece of shit. And suddenly he's got all these  _feelings_.

Beamers. Not Lance. Lance isn't gay. He likes girls.

He feels weird, though. He can't really describe it.  _Not_ creeped out, just... He can't describe what it is, he doesn't have the words. He feels like he's being pinched tight in his chest, and no amount of slow breathing will sooth the new wrinkles inside him, and he can't really be reacting this badly to some dude's sexuality, right? Like, worst comes to worst, if Beamers ever does anything about it, Lance will just politely decline because even if Beamers is a general piece of shit, it's not like Lance is going to take shots at that side of him.

It's stuck in his head, though. The thought of Beamers being gay in such close proximity.

Sure, Lance has thought about it, more than he would necessarily admit to Hunk and Allura, because they would probably call him creepy for examining other people's sexualities that closely. You're supposed to not linger on it. It's no big deal, right? People are people and when you learn that about them, you just move on. But it's a little bit of a puzzle for Lance, so sometimes he dwells on it. He doesn't know why.

_Why can't he put it out of his head?_

Because it's Beamers, right? Because last week Beamers tried to lay into Lance's skull with a soccer ball? (Man, what an  _asshole_. That's now how you treat the dude you're gay for.)

Lance can't just sit there anymore. He has to go home. He turns the key over and Yvette hums to life, the heater kicking on with her. He checks over his shoulder and tries to remember how to drive on roads full of other people.

 

* * *

 

Upon arrival to Slope Lane, Lance realizes he can't put off seeing Allura, not even if he wants to go hide in his room for three years. She's exactly who he needs. She's grounding, a loyal and understanding presence, someone who's been able to look past Lance's mood swings and will do it again, and starting now, no matter what curveballs he's thrown, he's really going to be better. Mature. The respectable young man her father saw at the dinner table that night.

He doesn't even bother to stop home and clean up, just parks at the curb and runs up to the door in a sweaty jersey.

Coran answers. He grins and pulls Lance inside with a strong arm. "Lance! How are you, m'boy, how are you?"

"Coran! Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Caught a case of the—well, that's not important. Feeling up for a game of chess? I could teach you to play the way my grandfather taught me, according to ancient monk guidelines—"

"Uh, actually, I really need to see Allura."

"Ah. Of course. Yes, did she tell you her phone was broken?"

"Yep."

They each size the other up impatiently for a moment.

Eyes narrowed, Coran asks, "Immune to chitchat, are you?"

"Lance! I'm so glad you came!" says Allura, appearing suddenly at the top of the staircase. She rushes down and hugs him, then pushes him back to arm's length, frowning down at both their outfits. "What on Earth...?"

Lance waves a hand. "Just practice. Can we talk?"

"I'll leave you to it," Coran says with a sigh, then putters up to the attic door. The second he disappears, Allura grips Lance's shoulder with staggering ferocity, her face pushing conspiratorially close.

"Yes, we can talk, but come with me. I have work I need to do downstairs before my father gets home."

With no further explanation, she tugs him downstairs to the basement, a place Lance has seen only one other time, when Allura paid him to sneak down and steal back a sweater she'd forgotten while she kept Alfor distracted. That was about two years ago, and Lance doesn't remember the specifics, but generally it looks the same. A row of three blacktop workstations, each clean and polished. A cabinet for microscopes, a cabinet for scalpels and other small instruments, a cabinet for different chemicals, all locked. An eye-washing station and shower. A flame hood. Allura flicks on the lights, and it becomes a studious and controlled environment. Lance minds the walls.

"I always forget you keep all this dangerous stuff underneath your house," he says. "Where you live."

"No chemicals today," Allura says breezily.

There's a computer in the corner, desk perpendicular to the wall so the user (intended to be Alfor, but small secrets never hurt from the dark) can keep an eye on the whole lab. Allura sits, slips a USB drive into a port, and begins typing quickly.

"You can sit on that stool," she offers, nodding to the closest workstation. Lance does. He feels very exposed down here. Like someone is breathing down his neck.

He asks, "Won't your dad know you've been on his computer?"

"It has a program I need to run for my research. Pidge's USB is nearly untraceable and stores all our information. As long as we take the necessary precautions, it's like we were never here."

He hopes the  _we_ means her and Pidge, because he's not so sure how he feels about being roped into this project.

"Sorry, let me just pull this up," Allura mutters, eyes intent on the screen. "It won't distract you if I work while we talk, will it? I only have a limited amount of time. Shouldn't be more than a half hour."

Actually, Lance thinks it will be  _easier_ if she's not fully focused on him. Less nerve-wracking. "That's fine."

"Great. So, is it about Keith? Do you feel okay after what happened today?"

_Keith. Oh yeah. He was a guy._

“Uhh,” Lance begins eloquently, trying to answer this question as much for himself as for Allura. He takes a deep breath to shake out all the rust. “Okay, I’m gonna try real hard at honesty right now because I know I’ve been an asshole lately.”

"I'd like that."

It stings a little, but he said it first, so he can't be mad. He takes a deep breath. Hand through his hair. "Okay. So. Yes, everything he does annoys me, and yes, I kind of hate him, but I also... don't hate him. I don't know. I can't think about that right now."

"He isn't what you wanted to talk about?" Allura asks, cocking her head slightly at him.

And suddenly, when faced with the prospect of telling,  _really_ telling Allura what he just encountered, he has no idea what he would say, or if he even wants her to know. He doesn't know why it makes him nervous. Maybe because it's even more to deal with right now and he doesn't have the emotional or mental capacity. Maybe because he's worried he'll say something wrong and she'll yell at him. Maybe because he didn't think ahead to what this conversation would sound like in real life, and now he doesn't like the way it feels all trapped inside him, let alone trapped between them. But he has to say something.

"I, uh... Allura, what do you think about...?" He started that sentence with no end in mind. He needs  _something_! "Do you think there are some closeted gay kids at school?"

She stops typing. Looks carefully at him, who knows what she's thinking, but she's clearly surprised by the question, but the activated businesswoman in her is trying to mask it. Lance, too. Slowly, she returns to the keyboard. Her eyes are glazed over, and he doesn't know if she's trying to prioritize him while also typing or vice versa.

"Of course I think it's possible," she says at length. "Why do you ask?"

Lance discretely wipes his sweaty palms one his shorts. "I think I know who one is."

Unexpectedly, she smiles at him, and Lance's heart starts hammering. "Well," she says, "you should never out someone you think might be in the closet, but in this case, I believe I already know."

Lance nearly tips over his stool.

"You  _do_?" he shrieks, then hurriedly lowers his voice when she glares daggers at him. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

She puts her hands on her hips. "Because it isn't my place! But I am glad you finally figured it out."

"How long have you known?" Lance asks, feeling slightly betrayed. Even more so than he had earlier. All these times they ragged on Beamer together, the rants, the anger, and she just knew, in the back of her head, just like she knows everything—

"Since the beginning." She shrugs. "It's no big deal."

"How can you say that? I'm not homophobic, but the fact that it's  _him_ —"

The door slams open at the top of the stairs. "Hey!" shouts the looming figure of Coran. "You two aren't supposed to be down here!"

Lance and Allura both freeze. Allura jams her thumb into the power button on the computer, eyes wide. "Coran, we—" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Get up here this instant!"

They sheepishly but immediately comply, Lance feeling more naked than ever.

"Here I come offering you a game of dommo's, and what do I find?" Coran continues, outraged, a see-through bag of dominoes clacking loudly onto the kitchen counter under his heavy hand. "I'll have to tell your father about this, young lady. Oh, yes, you two just sit right at the table and get these pieces set up—but it isn't a reward! No, no! I'm just keeping my eyes on you until Alfor gets home. Hmmph."

An unpleasantly competitive forty-five minutes later, Lance is beginning to wish he could put himself out of his misery with the sharp corner of the table. He knows he and Allura are in big trouble, and staying on Coran's good side is important—but it's torture. Punishment in itself. Lance is wondering for the thirtieth time in a minute if it will ever end when the front door finally clicks open in the other room.

Both Allura and Lance perk up with relief.

"Ah, there's your father," says Coran, mostly still surveying the playing field of pieces in front of them. His thoughts are unreadable.

"Uncle Coran," Allura says suddenly, "do you know what would be fun? If we made a pie together the way we sued to when I was younger. We should do that. Do you remember?"

"Aw." Coran smiles fondly. "I do remember. Yes, we should do that."

Allura's relief triples, eyes brightening. "And we could—"

He slams down the piece with a cocky grin and seems to come back to himself. "Oh, hold that thought, princess. Alfor?"

Alfor enters, jacket draped over his left forearm, and Coran very calmly, very politely throws Lance and Allura under the bus. With each word, Lance sinks further into his seat, and Alfor turns a deeper shade of red. His jacket becomes a wrinkled, throttled rag.

When the room falls silent, his eyes leave Coran and briefly cut into Lance. "Would you two give us the room, please?"

Lance's chair scrapes across the floor in his haste for the front door, but Coran grabs him by the shirt collar and redirects him upstairs. "Not so fast, young man. You'll get your turn."

"Aw, cheese."

"You can wait in Allura's room," says Coran, and he drops Lance off at the door.

Once inside, Lance collapses on Allura's bed, rubbing his eyes, exhausted. He figures Shiro will see Yvette parked in the street and know not to worry, but checks his notifications anyway. One missed call. The phone rings only once when Lance puts it to his ear.

"Hey, Lance," Shiro says brightly, a total juxtaposition to Lance's current suck-fest of badness. "What time are you planning on getting home?"

"After my turn getting lectured. Allura dragged me into a scheme."

Very faintly, Shiro sighs. It would be comical if Lance had a different kind of day. "Do I want to know?" he asks using Dad Voice. Lance rolls over on the bed miserably and wishes he could suffocate himself in a pillow. He jerks his mouth just far enough left to enable speech.

"General teenager mischief. Nothing to be concerned about."

"Right. I'll chat with Coran and Alfor."

Lance stifles a groan. "If you must."

"Well, anyway, dinner is almost ready. Will you be here in time? Should we save you a plate?"

Lance is starving, but his stomach is also roiling with nerves. "I don't know. It's whatever, I'll find something."

"Alright," says Shiro, remarkably understanding for what Lance was expecting. But then he's suddenly stern, and it strikes Lance all at once that he must just be used to it. He says, "Do not get into any more trouble."

Lance has to promise before Shiro will let him hang up.

He lets his hand flop limply into the blanket. Allura's bed has always been so much softer than his. Fluffier and more like a cloud. He wishes he could enjoy any of it, but at least the guilt means he's taking a step in the right direction for redemption.

 _Do not get into any more trouble_. Lance supposes that means this is the start of something long overdue, even if he can't believe he's about to do it. He pushes off the bed. Leaves the room. Plants himself in front of the door to the blue room and forces himself to knock before he can talk himself out of it. And he waits.

And he waits...

He knocks again, a little more impatiently this time, and when he continues to be ignored, he says, "Keith? It's Lance. Can I come in?"

He hears a muffled sound, which could have come from behind this door, or somewhere else in the hallway, he isn't sure. But if it  _is_ Keith saying yes, and Lance just stands here, then he's the asshole starting off on the wrong foot again, so he grits his teeth and reaches for the knob. "I think I heard a yes, so I'm coming in."

There's no responding shout telling him not to, so Lance opens the door. He hates that he's a little intimidated, after spending so many nights in this room himself before Keith ever even got here, but it's as easy as just reaching forward and twisting. The room still smells the same. In fact, it's... pretty much unchanged... Except the bed isn't made, and there's a stuffed duffel next to the closet—and oh. That's why. Keith hasn't unpacked yet.

Still? And is that one bag all he has?

It was the same story for Lance ten years ago, but that's because the fire had destroyed all of his things. There were no bags to bring. Keith has apparently been in the system for years now, so how did he not have more than a bag full of possessions to his name?

And, too late, Lance realizes that the room is completely empty, which means he just walked into Keith's room and— _whoa, that's a fucking knife._

Gleaming on the dresser in the gray light of a late afternoon in autumn. Wicked huge and sharp. More like a dagger than just any ordinary knife. Part of Lance stands rooted to the spot thinking,  _Why does he need a huge knife?!_ and the other part wants to cross the threshold and look more closely at the wrapping on the hilt and the symbol carved into it. Is Keith part of a cult? What if he  _is_ actually an insane murderer? What if he hurts Allura?

While Lance, gawking, stands brazenly in the entryway, the bathroom door opens, and Keith stares frozen at him with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He has  _muscles_. He's  _definitely_ strong enough to kill Lance right now if he wants.

"What are you doing in here?" Keith growls, clutching the towel at his waist with one hand. "Get out!"

Lance points dumbly at the dresser, feeling sluggish and unprepared. "Knife!"

Keith charges for the door and slams it in Lance's face, leaving Lance to stand open-mouthed, nose-to-nose with the wood, wondering if it would be smart to run but feeling too stuck to move. He hears footsteps at the other end of the hall coming up the stairs. It's Allura, just Allura, no sign of Alfor or Coran.

"Lance! What the hell's going on up here?"

Lance points at the door. "He's got a huge knife in there!"

Keith appears again, wearing only jeans, his hair falling damp around his face. Everything about him—his cheeks, his eyes, his ragged breaths—looks red. He pushes Lance farther back into the hallway with a hard hand to the chest, and Lance, stupefied and stricken, does little more than let it happen.

"I get that you don't like me, Lance, for whatever reason!" Keith yells. He's all teeth when he opens his mouth, all eyebrow in his expression. "You can just leave me alone, you shitface asshole! Stay out of my stuff and stay out of my life! Or if you have any real problems, you can say them to my face right here, right now."

He huffs like a bull, searching Lance's face, and Lance has never been so sure that he's about to lose a fight.

"I..." Lance squeaks. How does one tell a knife-wielding maniac  _I was only going to apologize!_ without getting murdered? Keith has barely ever said a word to anyone and now he's this raging, aggressive, ripped dude with an intimidating growl, and suddenly it makes sense why he never settled in one place. He's feral.

Keith retreats into the blue room and the door throws itself shut. Lance flinches backward and gapes at Allura, who has her hands on her hips and all the makings of murder in her eyes. She doesn't have to talk to demand an answer. Lance thinks sullenly,  _Don't get into any more trouble._ He should never have even come here.

"Why are you mad at me?" he asks, though his hands raised up basically admit guilt. "You don't even know what happened?"

"Is Keith wrong?"

"Yes!"

She doesn't believe him, not even a little bit at first. Something inside Lance snaps. Not in an angry, temperamental way. In a defeated way. He strides right up to her so his voice won't carry, whispers, "If you like him, you can just say it, okay? I don't—"

"Oh. My. God. You are absolutely unbelievable!" She jabs him in the chest with a finger. "That's  _enough_ , Lance. First of all, it's none of your business, and second of all, how can you say that? We were  _just_ talking about how he's  _gay_. So if that isn't enough reason for you to stop this—"

She keeps going, but Lance doesn't hear a word. They were talking about  _Keith_? Keith, angry Keith with the knife and the motorcycle, is  _gay_? And Allura has known since the beginning? And just... not told Lance? Has allowed him to keep making an ass of himself, time after time? 

He does hear her say, "I think you should go."

And it's the most reasonable thing Lance has heard all day. He heads across the street and doesn't look back.

 

* * *

 

Lance is sitting up in bed with his guitar when Shiro comes in to talk, hip on the doorjamb. "Hey."

Lance doesn't look up. "Did Allura's dad tell you what happened?"

Shiro doesn't answer, but instead asks in a gentle voice, "What's going on in your head?"

"Ha." It's more of a breath meant just for himself. Lance leans the guitar down on the floor against his nightstand, then pulls the covers up on himself almost to his chin. "I know I messed up. I think I want to be left alone right now."

"You know you can't just avoid your problems, right?"

"Pretty sure I've been dealing with it for awhile now." He doesn't mean for his words to have an edge. He's just tired. Shiro takes it in generous stride, remaining calm and focused.

"Okay. You don't have to do it alone, though."

"Okay."

"Here when you need me."

"O _kay_."

The door shuts, and that’s the last conversation Lance has for about a week. The worst week of his life so far, probably.

He keeps his head down in his classes. Sits alone at lunch. He barely sleeps, instead staying up all night in bed on his laptop or his phone. Sometimes, he thinks about Bryce Beamers. Sometimes, a lot more than he should. It’s weird, fixating on someone else's sexuality, he knows. He never thought twice about Pidge being non-binary once it was all explained to him. But now, suddenly, two dudes around Lance are gay, and he doesn’t know why he can’t move past it. He isn’t homophobic. He just can’t stop thinking about it. _Is_ he homophobic? Is it because they're kids his age, not older and respectable like Shiro, who, again, Lance hardly thinks about?

What  _is_ it?

Practice is weird. On Monday, Bryce might have tried to catch Lance’s eye, but Lance threw walls up fast and hard. It’s pretty obvious Bryce has guessed that Lance knows. And where Lance is expecting an increase in aggression, he instead gets something of a wall in return—just not where the goal is concerned. All of Lance’s kicks are still, for the most part, blowing past him.

(Except when Lance also gets distracted and his kicks fail completely.)

He goes home, stays in his room, goes to school, goes home… No one talks to him. Not even Allura. And that’s mostly fine. It’s like the world takes the back burner, and he drifts through the day to day, trying to get right again.

He doesn’t know what the problem is. He feels off-center at every point. It isn’t until he wakes up from a thick fog of sleep on Sunday morning with the ghost of Bryce Beamers’s arms pressing so realistically into his body that it fucks with his head. He throws off his blanket and sits completely up like he's waiting for someone to burst in and shout,  _I caught you!_

That doesn't happen. He's walled in with his fabricated memories.

And he isn’t creeped out (well, yeah, he is, because it’s _Beamers_ ), but he’s...  _freaked_.

Freaked because even though it was a dream, he can still feel Beamers coming onto him, pressing up against him, and Lance, with his brain shut off and his guard let down, was like, _Hmmm, maybe I was wrong, yeah_ , which is so out-of-this-planet-weird that he strips off his shirt and throws it across the room so all he can feel is the tepid morning air. Nothing _touching_ him.

He _isn’t_ homophobic…

What the fuck, though…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and yall thought i ditched SIKE im in this game

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, I know very little about the foster system, so I would love feedback/info-dumps on the subject!!


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